


Misfortunes (Febuwhump 2021)

by lait_tea1



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Febuwhump, Febuwhump 2021, Fluff, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 29,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lait_tea1/pseuds/lait_tea1
Summary: Whump fics for Febuwhump 2021, featuring mainly the Seventh Platoon but also including other Archanea characters. Includes some angst, whump and a lot of fluff, whether it's just light-hearted friendship, sibling interactions or fluffy romance...
Relationships: Cecil/Rody | Roderick, Gordin & Ryan (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 7





	1. Mind Control (Seventh Platoon)

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these will be about the Seventh Platoon, but some of them will be about other FE12 characters. I'll put the character focus in the titles of the chapters to make it easier to navigate.
> 
> I'm not even going to try hide the fact I like writing whump under the thin guise of a plot. (I've always wanted to do a whump collection but I've never had the courage/motivation to do it until now...) This is mostly just me making an attempt at proper whump and exploring different prompts, and it probably won't be edited much or be very good, but... I'm just having fun and giving it a shot, so if you're interested in reading, enjoy the ride! I'm also hoping that doing this will force me to stop writing unnecessarily much about the context; I'm aiming to just get straight into the action, so hopefully I'll get better at that too.
> 
> Anyway, Chapter 1: Mind Control! Berserk staves don't exist in FE12 but just pretend they do for this (or they were brought around from... I don't know, one of the other FE countries from a different time...) Also, they hint at this headcanon I have of Kris ([in this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158362)), but you don't have to read that to know what's going on. (It does make me wonder about how the two things I enjoy writing are on basically opposite ends of the spectrum...)

They had been quite successful in sneaking up on the fortress – amidst all the battle happening on the other side, they had remained completely undetected and the fortress was in a sprint’s reach. Of course, that wasn’t counting the vast, open field in between, which was devoid of the crumbling walls and underbrush they had been able to hide behind prior.

There hadn’t been anybody around, though – at least, there hadn’t appeared to be anyone, so when Kris suddenly shouted “Watch out–!”, none of them even had time to react before something came arcing from the direction of the fortress like a blazing arrow–

“Kris!” Cecil shouted, coughing as she batted away the remainders of the purple smoke – remnants of whatever had just hit Kris – with her hand.

Ryan rushed to Kris’s side, big grey eyes wide and fearful. But at seeing their commander unharmed, he breathed a sigh of a relief. “Oh, you’re alright! Did they miss you with–”

It was sudden and violent and the unbridled swing with the flat of Kris’s sword nearly knocked poor Ryan out cold.

The little archer was fortunate enough to have ducked just in time – or maybe it was the tilt of the blade that made it arc inches over his head rather than cutting straight through – but he was too caught up in his own shock and terror to pay attention to that as Kris snarled like an animal and leaped at him again.

Luke did not hesitate to tackle Kris out of the air and slam him to the ground with his own body weight.

“What the hell are you doing?!” came halfway from his lips, but at catching sight of the glazed look in Kris’s eyes, Luke hesitated for just a second–

Kris punched him square in the jaw and swatted the disoriented Luke off him with little to no effort, another animalistic noise reverberating from his throat.

“What–?”

Kris turned towards the rest of the Seventh Platoon with bared teeth and reached for his sword.

“I don’t think so!” Cecil kicked it far out of reach with the toe of her boot. Apparently that was what decided his next target, because Kris lurched towards her with that same, glassy expression in his eyes–

“Sorry about this.” Roderick whipped the shaft of his lance around and swept Kris’s legs out from underneath him–

Kris slammed a foot on top of the lance midair. It was torn from Roderick’s grip with an audible crack of the wooden shaft – the former muffling a noise of pain with the lance snapping down against his fingers – and the two separate pieces hit the grass with a thud.

Ryan yelped. “W-what do we do?! Is this – is this a curse…?!”

Luke lurched to his feet. “Get back, kiddo,” he said, voice strained. He staggered towards Kris, drawing his sword from its scabbard. “I don’t know what the hell this is, but–”

“B-but you can’t – we can’t kill him–!”

Ryan was cut short by Cecil’s furious cry. “That’s it – you’d better go back to your normal self now before I make you–!”

Kris flung a punch. Cecil ducked, grabbed her sword, which was still sheathed, and whipped around to bash it across the back of Kris’s head.

Kris’s expression twisted slightly into something that might’ve resembled pain, but it didn’t deter him from grabbing Cecil’s sword arm roughly and wrenching it back–

“Hey, not on my watch!” Luke dropped his sword and flung himself at Kris. The two tumbled to the ground in a writhing heap of flailing limbs.

“A little help over here–?!” Luke bit out.

Roderick joined Luke in pinning down Kris’s wildly kicking legs, lips peeled back in a grimace. “Maybe we should have figured out the extent of his inhuman strength before he was actively trying to kill us…”

While they were struggling to hold him down, Kris managed to grab ahold of one piece of the discarded lance shaft and whipped it around to clock Luke in the back of the head.

“Ow, s–” Luke twisted around to make a blind grab for the offending weapon, only to get a handful of splinters as Kris stabbed him in the hand with it instead. “Ow, ow, that _hurts_ –!”

Kris didn’t seem to care particularly much for the splinters and – now when the top half of his body free without Luke pinning him down – bashed the stick against Luke’s head again with a sickening crack. The other knight went limp at once.

With one less person restraining him, Kris roughly tossed Luke’s unconscious body aside and stood up – despite Roderick’s desperate attempts to keep him from getting up – and kicked said knight hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

Kris lifted the splintered stick above his head, glassy eyes empty and lifeless despite the fury that twisted his lips into a snarl.

Cecil struck him across the back of his head with the other broken half of the lance shaft. Kris whipped around with a shriek of rage, but she sidestepped his clumsy retaliation and kicked him in the back of the knees, sending him to the ground. Then she hit him in the head again – Kris unfortunately did not fall unconscious and continued to fight back against her, so she continued to batter him with the stick in her left hand as if any one of those strikes would knock him out–

“I got him, I got him…!”

Ryan’s cries sounded more hysterical than anything, with the archer rushing back to them with his bow in hand and the bowstring still thrumming from the recently loosed arrow, but almost as soon as he’d shouted, Kris let out a hoarse gasp – eyes flying wide for just a moment, eyes rolling back to show the whites – then the stick slipped from his grip and he promptly slumped to the ground.

All was silent for several long seconds.

Kris lifted his head, gaze bleary – but full of horrified and grief-stricken knowing, even before any of them could open their mouths.

“Oh, Naga, what have I done?”

“…at least you’re back.” Cecil stumbled over to where the prone Luke lay, tossing aside her bloodied stick and wrapping her left hand around where her right arm hung limp. “…hey. Get up.”

Kris staggered over too, eyes wide and glossy but this time with dread and pain rather than dark magic. “Luke, please, I’m so sorry–”

Luke coughed. “Yeah, g’me a moment, need a moment to – breathe…”

Seeing that he was fine – or at least alive, which was good enough for now – Cecil shuffled unsteadily across to where Roderick had propped himself up already. “You’re…”

Roderick winced, running his fingers gingerly over the left side of his chest. “Could be better, but I can still walk.”

“…y-you guys don’t look very good.” Ryan said nervously.

“You think?” Cecil said, a sliver of harshness creeping into her tone. Then at Ryan’s distressed look and Kris’s guilty expression, she sighed. “No, none of us are to blame for this – none of us wanted to hurt each other. Whoever that sorcerer was, and whatever magic they used…”

“Whatever it was, we need to tell Prince Marth about it.” Roderick said gravely. “They already know about our positions, so our ambush is futile – especially in what condition we’re in now. Let’s head back and hopefully the main force can capture the fortress without our help.”

“…I’m sorry, everyone.”

Luke tried to grin at Kris from where he was lying on the floor, but it looked more like a grimace than anything. “Hey, what did she say? It’s not your fault – and if we’re trying to go with apologies here, then I’ve got to apologise for trying to beat your head in too. Though it would be nice if you weren’t so ludicrously strong, but… hey, hey, I’m joking! It’s all good – now that you’re on our side again…” He let his head fall back against the grass. “…ugh, I’ve got to be bruised all over now.”

“We have to go now before they send reinforcements.”

Kris leaned down and shouldered Luke’s weight, pulling him to his feet and throwing Luke’s arm around his own shoulder. His expression was still wrought with anguish, but Roderick’s warning tone emphasised the peril of their situation. “…let’s go.”

“I wonder what we’re gonna tell him, though,” Luke said with a forced laugh as he staggered along with Kris, “oh hey, Prince Marth, we were just beating each other up in a field while some evil magic guy watched, just the usual', right?”

Cecil glared at him.

“No? Okay, maybe not that last part, but you know…”

“Please, Luke. Be quiet.”

“Fine…”


	2. "I can't take this anymore" (Katarina, Clarisse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Reese struggles with their reality in Eremiya's 'orphanage'. Clarisse... reassures her, in her own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the FE12 Assassin Crew are going to be my second most-focused on characters in here, aside from the Seventh Platoon. This takes place during Eremiya's assassin training times, possibly before Legion joins (I can't remember if Katarina and Legion joined the orphanage at the same time, or if it had been before or after Eremiya's corruption), but before Reese joins the Seventh Platoon. (I'm calling her Reese here since she technically doesn't use the name Katarina until that battle with the Soothsires, but I'll still put the name Katarina in the chapter title to make sorting by characters easier)
> 
> It's also not really whump, but... this is what came to mind first, so that's what I wrote about! (Also, I tried to start writing this in present tense – because that was something I wanted to try and do for a couple of these ficlets – but for some strange reason I find it really hard. Yet somehow I couldn't stop writing in present tense when I was writing that Tatizeke fic... I think that might've been because I read too many Tatizeke fics in the present tense before I started writing that... anyway, never mind me – I'll stop rambling now.)

The spray of blood caught Reese in the lower jaw and splattered over her coat – thin and tattered and too-big for the young girl it was draped over.

Reese dropped the knife as the creature – a matted animal with dark fur slick with blood and dirt – let out a rattling whine. Ribs straining against its patchy skin in a final, gurgling cry, and another swell of blood spilling from the puncture in its chest; then its heaving chest stilled.

Reese was quiet for a long moment, her fingers digging tight into her own palm. Animal blood trickled down her cheek and dripped onto the back of her knuckles.

“Reese. Seriously, what are you doing?”

Blond hair and a mouth tugged into a fierce scowl – in stark contrast to Reese’s shivering, huddled form, small and weak and covered in dirt and blood – Clarisse was confident and strong and talented and nothing like Reese. There was not a speck of blood on her or her clothes, and she looked completely natural with her hunting dagger swinging from between her fingers. She was completely perfect, Eremiya’s favourite even from the very beginning…

“Ugh, what are you doing? You’re all dirty.” Clarisse strode over, sheathing her dagger with a deft flick of her wrist. Then she gave the animal at Reese’s feet a scrutinising look and huffed. “And you’re meant to cut it cleanly through, not stick the knife wherever you please. How are you going to get this right with your target if you can’t even properly kill a rat? No wonder there’s blood all over you.”

Without waiting for an answer, Clarisse pulled a scrap of cloth from her own belt and began roughly dabbing at Reese’s face. “And you’re going to get infected by whatever disease that mangy rat has if you’re so careless with handling its blood.”

A particularly rough swipe of the scratchy cloth against the corner of her lips left Reese’s cheek stinging. Then Clarisse grabbed Reese’s hands and scraped the blood off them too, leaving the skin red and irritated in her wake. “Come on. Pick up your catch and we’ll go home. Your coat’s going to stain if you leave it too long.”

The bloody knife lying next to the rat glistened nauseatingly in the dull light. Reese swallowed hard.

“Why?”

Clarisse turned and glared. “What is it?”

“Why do we have to do this? This killing, this – I don’t want to have to kill people or practice killing people. I don’t want…”

“Shush!” Clarisse said sharply, striding back her way. “These caverns echo and you’re going to get us both punished if you keep running your mouth like that.”

“B-but I don’t want to. I don’t want – I can’t take this anymore–! I just want to–”

Her sentence ended in a squeak as Clarisse grabbed her by the wrist harshly. “Stop it. Reese, stop it.”

She sniffled. “Clarisse…”

“Lady Eremiya is teaching us this to protect us.” Clarisse said lowly. “What are you going to do if one day, I’m not here and you’re attacked by some stranger? Or even – if you’re attacked by one of those people in Knorda again. Are you gong to let them kick you around like some mangy animal again? Or are you going to stand up for yourself?”

Reese choked down a sob. “But…”

“Look at me, Reese.” Clarisse grabbed her by the shoulders, nails digging against the coarse fabric of her coat. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. When they try even dare hurt you again, you’re going to hurt them twice as much as they hurt you. You’re going to make them recognise the suffering they’ve caused you – and you’re going to stop them from hurting anyone else again like they had done to you by ending their miserable lives right there, you hear me?”

“I…”

“We owe our lives to Lady Eremiya. She’s only doing this for our sake.” Clarisse fixed Reese with a piercing glare. “So if you want to survive the world out there, then you’re going to shut up and not say a word about this ever again, especially not to her. Got it?”

Reese sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. “I know…”

“Good.” Clarisse let go of her shoulders and spun around. “Pick up your stuff – we’re going back now. And we’re going to get you cleaned up and get you a new coat – that’s no look for someone who claims to be my older sister.”


	3. Imprisonment (Luke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Luke annoys the wrong group of kids and they lock him in a box for it.
> 
> He doesn't really learn from his mistakes in the end, but he does learn to be afraid of confined spaces for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off one of the [headcanons](https://twitter.com/lait_tea1/status/1353740399802634240) I wrote about the Seventh Platoon's fears. I only realised how many of their fears can actually be applied to the Febuwhump prompts... so I'll definitely see if I can write for a couple more based on those headcanons! Though I kind of feel bad for them because most of their traumatic experiences happen when they're young (like Luke here), but also I'm a little too excited to get around to writing them... there's something just very interesting or even thought-provoking about writing whump sometimes. (I still have no idea if the stuff I'm writing even qualifies as whump, but I'm definitely having fun)
> 
> And speaking of headcanons (I suppose I'll just use the notes section here to ramble about stuff), I've already thought of headcanons of Luke's relationship with his brother, but I haven't even given the guy a name yet. He'll just awkwardly remain nameless until something occurs to me...
> 
> Oh, and I tried my hand at writing in present tense! I like how forward and direct it is (like, especially with the action) – I can't tell if it got easier to write in present tense over time because I started in present tense, or because half of this is pretty action packed (compared to Chapter 2, for instance). I also use a lot of em dashes because I'm not very good at trying to describe fast-paced things without them...

“My heroic deeds will ring on the lips of those for millennia to come! It’s an honour for you to meet me now, in person – don’t ever forget the name of Luke the Magnificent, because you’ll–”

The next thing he knows, his feet are high off the ground and everything flips over for a moment as somebody – one of the larger boys that had been part of the crowd of kids surrounding him – wrestles him off his feet and picks him up much too easily. Luke lets out an “oof” as the boy’s shoulder digs into his stomach.

“Hey, lemme go! What’re you doing?” He protests, kicking futilely. One of the town girls – the one he had been flirting with earlier – sticks out her tongue at him. He tries to smack the boy carrying him with a closed fist, but it rings hollow and pitiful against solid muscle. “I’m the Legendary Luke! You can’t hold down a legend–”

Someone smacks him with a stick and he yelps. “All bark but no bite, huh, pipsqueak?” Someone taunts, while another girl decides this is a great opportunity to slap him in the cheek in retaliation for _something_ – he’d only ever complimented and flirted with her, and this is the thanks he gets? It actually hurts, though, and Luke pauses his struggling to try cover his face protectively. “Oww, stop it!”

“We’ve had enough of you pestering everyone in town.” The boy carrying him throws him to the ground – hard. His head bangs against something and suddenly everything’s all too blurry and their voices are ringing in his ears.

“Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson.”

Then everything goes dark with a thud and click.

Luke groans and closes his eyes. The darkness is almost nice to his throbbing head, but–

There are walls. Wooden walls tight all around him, pressing his arms and legs uncomfortably close to his body – he tries to stick out a leg and finds it confined by a slab of hard, unyielding wood.

He cries out as the box he’s in suddenly tips to the side and narrowly bowls him forward onto his face – if forward was even the right word, _which way’s up and down?_ There’s laughter and mortification slithers down his throat like a snake at the mocking sound before the reality of his situation takes hold again.

“Hey, wait – let me out, you can’t keep me here–!”

“You can wait for your mama or papa to find you – or maybe not. Bet they’d be happy to be rid of an annoying brat like you anyway.” Someone jeers, voice muffled. Luke kicks in the general direction of the sound and his foot crunches painfully against the wall.

Then the box begins to move. It shudders, each ridge and bump digging into his back, and Luke’s vaguely aware of being dragged across the ground, each rock and stone beneath causing his face to slam against the wall, or perhaps the ceiling – and suddenly the box tipped over again and this time his face hit the solid wooden wall in front of him with an audible crack.

He manages a muffled cry through the heat spreading through his aching face.

It’s quiet. The sounds of the children fade away, leaving him alone and battered in his prison – walls enclosing him in pitch blackness. His own yells fade to nothingness too as his voice grows hoarse and thin and he realises nobody’s coming back for him.

-x-x-x-

He starts by trying to kick the box open, but after nearly tipping over again and landing on his face, he doesn’t try that again.

Luke tries to think of a plan to get free – maybe wriggle something through the lid (there’s got to be a lid, right?) and pry himself free, but then his situation sets in. It’s dark and hot and cramped – his right leg hurts from being bent back under his left leg and he’s just too tall for the box so the wood is digging into the back of his neck.

“Help–?” He finally pushes down his pride to say, but there’s nobody outside to hear him and suddenly he’s struck with a terrifying thought: _What if my family just leave me here and forget I’m here?_

“No… they’re not gonna leave me here. They’re – Mother and Father are going to come back for me…” He speaks aloud, as if that’ll somehow make it true. His own voice – scratchy and thin – doesn’t reassure him at all.

_But they don’t even know where I am, and – and whenever I say stuff, they always tell me to be quiet and go away and maybe they do just want me to go away and not come back–_

His next breath comes in a shallow gulp. The air is thin and damp with his breath, and he tries to gasp yet not enough air fills his aching lungs. He chokes on nothing and scrabbles desperately at the walls with his nails– _I can’t breathe I can’t breathe–_

He pushes hard against the walls with his knee and whimpers as the wall shoves back. It’s crushing him, the walls are closing in and they’re going to squash him–

Maybe he passes out, or maybe not. He feels faint and time passes all too quickly and all too slowly, like drifting in and out of a restless nightmare. His rapid breaths slow and his pounding heartbeat slows too, until everything feels numb and cold instead and it’s almost akin to dying, in a way: _So this is where… Luke the Magnificent falls…_

Abruptly, Luke’s stomach growls. Hunger is such a normal thing, it almost takes his mind off the darkness and the walls of his cage. But it also reminds him–

 _…how long has it been?_ Ever since the other kids left, there hasn’t been a sound aside from his own panicked thrashing… and now that he’s aware of the hunger pangs digging their claws deep in his stomach, he can hardly muster the energy to even rattle his cage.

 _They’re not going to let me starve, are they?_ comes the fleeting thought – but remembering the sheer hatred in their eyes when they’d been mocking him, laughing at his misery makes him reconsider that hopeful line of thought.

He sniffs. _Maybe they’re right. Maybe Mother and Father are tired of me… they’ve always liked Brother more… they wouldn’t want to come back for me._

He couldn’t even fend off a couple of kids – never mind become an Altean knight! Their family was renowned for its generations of heroic knights – real knights, with real heroic deeds and more than just a bunch of made-up stories – no wonder they probably saw him as a disappointment–

There’s a voice. He pauses – his self-pitying forgotten for a moment, he strains his ears and his heart leaps at the sound of footsteps.

He does his best to flail about and make as much noise possible, and even tries to scream – though his voice is so hoarse it hurts more to yell. But he musters the strength to kick and fight back against the confines of his prison, and the footsteps are getting closer…

“Hello?”

Somebody gives the lid of his cage a tug. Luke knocks back against the wood with his fist and nearly cries with relief at the sudden sliver of light that cuts through the cramped cage of wood.

“So this is where you’ve been? …hold on, it looks like this thing’s locked. Stand back…”

There’s a metallic screech and crash. The light that fills his vision is blinding, but he’s no longer trapped inside and he can finally _breathe_ , and he’s not dying–

Someone lifts him up under the arms, sets him down. He whines in pain and his legs buckle – “stop it” he mumbles, but it comes out as a muffled noise.

“How did you even get yourself into this situation? Bothered the villagers too much again? I told you to mind the consequences of your words.” Despite the exasperation in his brother’s words, his tone softens. “Hey, little buddy, you really do have to be careful out there… how long have you been in that crate for?”

Luke tries to answer but even thinking about it makes his throat tighten and his eyes hurt.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry now… I thought you were meant to be the Legendary Luke – how are you meant to become a brave and valiant knight if you let yourself be seen like this…”

He only sobs some more; the tears flow hot and wet down tear-tracked cheeks and his brother only sighs again and wraps him up in his arms.

“…sorry, wrong thing to say, huh? …it’s alright, it’s over – we’ve got you now… Let’s go home, buddy, okay?”

He continues to cry into his brother’s shoulder until there’s nothing left to cry, until they get home and his brother gets the nurses to stop the throbbing in his head and his aching limbs before they have dinner (Luke isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Mother and Father isn’t eating dinner with them again – though it really isn’t anything new at this point) and tucking him into bed early.

The next day, he’s as boisterous and loud and boastful as ever, but he swears he’ll not let himself get anywhere close to being shoved in a box ever again (and to not let himself get anywhere near that village from now on).


	4. Impalement (Roderick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderick is stabbed through with a spear and it's not a fun walk to find a healer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is any of the information about being impaled here accurate? Probably not. But I have no first hand experience of this (and I certainly would not like some), and the Wikipedia page I ended up scrolling through out of morbid fascination didn't quite help... (there were a lot of historical depictions of it as a torture method, if that... helped with setting the mood.)
> 
> Anyway, I've stabbed him through once ('[the joys of resurrection in the Heroes universe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27133171/chapters/66258415)'... no that's not the actual title) but I like the trope a little too much so I went for it again at a different angle. Poor Roderick can't catch a break.

The spear punches through his abdomen and he hears it coming out the other side rather than feels it – it’s a terrible sound of tearing sinew and muscle that he hardly recognises as his _own_ flesh.

Roderick staggers forward, plunges his lance through his attacker’s chest before they can react – a fatal blow that renders them twitching for several seconds before they fall still, hands slipping from the blood-slicked shaft of their javelin as they crumple to the ground.

He breathes shakily. In, out, in, out – his heart is pounding from the adrenaline and he can hardly get his hands to stop trembling. Maybe it’s the spear that’s quite literally impaled him that’s making it so hard to focus…

He leans on his lance for support and fixates his eyes up ahead rather than down as if it would erase the reality of it being there.

He’s not going to die. Not yet – it’s not the worst injury he’s had, but that other time he’d had a healer at his side to immediately tend to him.

_A healer… right. I need to find one…_

He doesn’t look down. Pulling it out will hurt him more than not, with the blood loss – and with adrenaline still coursing through his system, he can’t quite feel it… yet.

With the pain numbed, for at least the moment, he takes the opportunity to start walking, avoiding the body left on the ground. Everything’s gone a little fuzzy now, and he’s blindly walking towards the sound of battle, from the main force up ahead – where there would be healers, someone to remove it and heal him before he could bleed out.

He’s not quite sure how far the spear has gone through his body – it definitely came out the other side, he could feel it sticking out through his back, thankfully still numb even though he could feel its weight tugging downwards with gravity.

_Keep going… I need to keep walking._ Roderick wraps one hand around the shaft sticking out the front of his abdomen, hissing at feeling the wood _shift_ inside him and blood seep out from between his own fingers – it’s a morbid thought. It’s tempting to pull out now – some animal instinct is screaming at him to, to simply wrench it out now – but he’s certainly going to die if he does it.

He falters at the fresh throb of pain that bites through the adrenaline-hazed part of his mind. Screwing his eyes shut, exhaling sharply through gritted teeth – then he opens his eyes again and squints out at the blurry landscape in front of him. The colours of Altea, smudges against the horizon; he’s nearly there, but it’s disconcerting that the sounds of their war cries have gone quiet under a dull ringing that seems to be coming from everywhere around him. Or maybe it’s just him…

Ah – blue… there’s something blue up ahead. Blue is good, blue is… he can’t quite recall her name right now, but she can help him, she can stop the pain, her healing magic…

_In, out–_ He times his steps with his ragged breaths, moving slowly but steadily towards them. Or maybe not so steadily – he thinks he’s swaying, or maybe the world’s the one that’s swaying, he can’t quite tell…

“…what the– is that – healer, _healer_!”

He’s so tired. He just wants to lie down and sleep, so that he doesn’t have to feel it – the pain stabbing straight through his side like a bolt of fire is making it hard to doze off…

_…how did I get here again?_

Someone’s in front of him, hands grasping his shoulders. He mumbles something and grudgingly opens his eyes, blinking blearily at the hazy figure in front of him.

“Hey, hey, hold on now, Rody – Marisha's coming, keep your eyes open–!”


	5. "Take me instead" (Julian, Lena)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Julian does stumble upon Lena before the heretic bishops whisk her away?
> 
> ...well, he gets blasted in the face with dark magic first, then not much changes after that. He tried, at least...

Julian frowns at the near-empty pantry cabinet. He moves aside the sack of flour, counts the oranges stacked up at the back, then withdraws his head from the dusty shelf and sneezes.

It had been a while since their last visit to the next town’s market for supplies… he’d have to tell Lena about their lack of supplies as well. Perhaps they could make it to the next town’s market before the kids came back to the convent after their own expedition into the town…

“Lena?” He calls, leaving the cabinet door open as he wanders out of the kitchen and passes through the different hallways – the dining area is empty, she’s not in her room…

The front door is half-open. He frowns and takes a step outside; Lena’s white robes are nowhere to be seen amongst the laundry and bedsheets dangling from the washing line, and she doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight.

 _Strange. She doesn’t usually leave this place without telling me…_ Then he berates himself: _She doesn’t have to tell me if she wants to take a walk in town or something. She’s her own person – she can do what she wants. It’s not like I–_

He cuts the thought off there. He tucks his hands into his pockets and ambles out further – the villagers here are kind anyway, and he doubts anyone would want to steal from a convent, even if they did have much to steal.

Even though Lena being out isn’t really a big deal, there’s still a sense of uneasiness weighing him down… _I’m sure she’s fine. The village is a safe place anyway – in fact, she’s probably just out watching over the kids in the town, that’s all…_

 _…I shouldn’t leave all the work to her, though. I might as well go down there as well and see what she’s up to._ The kids did tend to get rowdy on their little expeditions into the town, and not even Lena would be able to keep an eye on all of them…

He’s hardly sure how he had mustered the patience to try handle so many children at once, even if he had been the one to encourage Lena to pursue her idea. Not to say he dislikes it, though – in fact, doing this is one of the many things in his life now that brings him joy. It’s quite the step away from his old life, that’s for sure, and seeing Lena smile at the older kids fawning over his lock-picking skills (he might have abandoned that life, but he can’t afford to get rusty) makes it all the more better.

Of course, to nobody’s surprise, or at least not his, Lena’s the one that does most of the work around in the convent. She somehow always found the time for each child they had taken in, and the kids adored her. Seeing Lena so happy doing what she loved was also another bonus to the life he had found himself living…

Julian heads towards the main plaza of the village. There’s bound to be at least one of the kids there, so maybe they can tell him where Lena’s gone.

He rounds the corner and there’s nothing that could have quite prepared him for what happened next.

A group of people in dark robes, faces shadowed by their hoods – and they’re surrounding Lena, who meets Julian’s eyes and gasps and mouths something that he can’t quite catch through the pounding in his head–

One of the robed figures turn. He freezes for a moment – _Damn it, do something, they’ve got Lena–!_ – and then something else takes over and he practically screams “Take your hands off her!”

When they all turn to stare at him, Julian fumbles for a weapon and then remembers that he doesn’t have his dagger with him.

Lena’s shaking her head. He can catch his name on her lips, but can’t quite tell what she’s trying to say – but the terrified expression on her face gives it away. Julian grits his teeth, tries to swallow his own fear, and repeats “Get away from Lena!”

“Step aside, boy… do not interfere with issues that are not of your business. She has a greater purpose to serve…”

Julian bristles. “Not my business? This is plenty my business, alright – so you’d better, you’d better let her go before…”

“Julian, no!” Lena finally bursts out. He freezes again and meets her eyes – her sad, tired eyes, wide and pleading, almost exactly like the time she had–

“Stay… stay out of this. Julian, please.”

The robed figure at her side tightens their hold on her arm. She winces, and Julian sees red.

“Do not move, boy.” They say calmly, before he can even take a step forward. “Unless you wish to sacrifice the little ones…”

_The little–?_

“Please, don’t hurt him or the children. You only want me… leave everyone here alone, please – I’ll do whatever you ask of me.” Lena bows her head. Julian’s heart twists at the implication – _she’s giving herself up again… not again, not again–_

“No… no. Lena, I–”

Julian doesn’t see any other way.

“Take me instead–! Just – just let her go, please…”

The robed figures are silent for a long moment. Julian lifts his head slightly and is – is horrified to see them almost look amused, or as amused as one can be with their faces covered–

“…foolish boy. He has no need of a peasant like yourself.” Instead of answering his plea, they shake their head – then call out to the others surrounding Lena. “Enough of this nonsense – we needn’t keep him waiting any longer.”

A circle of magic flickers around them.

“Lena!” Julian screams, leaping to his feet and lunging–

He hears her scream and doesn’t quite process _why_ until he feels the hard ache of the floor spreading up his back and an explosion of icy pain across his chest–

He doesn’t even get to see her face one last time before she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent way too long about the context and background... and here I was, doing so well with getting straight into the action. But... that aside, here's some Julian and Lena! I particularly like their relationship, though... not a lot of interaction actually happens here. I have to admit I feel this could have turned out better – everything still feels a little stiff and just not hard-hitting enough in terms of emotion or action, even at the end – but that's what this project is for! Practicing, improving – and creating, even if things don't turn out exactly the way I want them to.
> 
> Anyway, that's my daily ramble over. Onwards to the next day of writing!


	6. Insomnia (Ryan, Gordin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haunted by the guilt of his first kill, Ryan can't sleep – and ends up seeking out Gordin for reassurance.

Ryan sees something move in the darkness and his heart hammers again.

_It’s nothing… it’s nothing._

His roommate is sleeping soundly, the bundle of blankets over him rising and falling with each breath. Ryan envies him, or at least he would; but Kris has always been strong.

_Unlike me…_

There shouldn’t be anything to be afraid of. The ravaging bandits they had stumbled upon in that village – they were hurting people, innocent Alteans, so – so they killed them. It was straightforward, as black and white as anything could be. It was their job – or would be their job – to protect the innocent people of Altea as knights.

His eyes dart to the corner of the room again. The shadowy figure that’s lurking there – _It’s nothing, it’s nothing…_

Ryan pulls the blankets up to his head and tucks his legs close to himself, screwing his eyes shut and desperately willing himself to sleep, as if that would somehow wash away the fear and guilt and the blood staining his hands–

It’d been three days and counting since he’s been able to get a proper night of sleep. The memories still haunt him and he’s not quite sure whether the ghostly apparitions that linger behind his eyelids are from his imagination or from how exhausted he’s been. When Kris asked him if he was okay, Ryan had only smiled weakly and nodded.

_If I told them, they’d – they’d all be disappointed in me. They wouldn’t want me to be in their platoon anymore, if I can’t even bring myself to kill the people we have to kill…_

His throat tightens again. _I can’t be a knight if I can’t even follow simple instructions like that._

But, but – their terrified faces, the blood, the life draining from their eyes – Ryan can’t help but think about it, and terror settles in his heart again. His fingers twist against his blankets again and he tries, he really does, to just sleep…

Ryan misses his brother. Back then, before Gordin left home to become a knight, he’d always been there for him – Mother and Father had insisted they get separate bedrooms, but sleeping alone was so hard for the first few months. When the thunderstorms were loud and particularly scary, or when he’d constantly see those terrifying dragons from the stories the older kids would tell, Gordin always knew what to say to reassure him, and then Ryan would find himself drifting off the sleep without even having to try.

_Wait… but he’s here. Brother’s here, in this castle – I… I can just go to him. I can just see him, now…_

His heart does a leap. _…Gordin – he… he’ll know what to do. He’d know–_

His moment of elation stutters to a halt. _But… but he’ll be so disappointed. He’s trained me for this long, and I’m not even a little kid anymore…_

But the thought has already taken hold of him, and he just… he just really wants to see Gordin.

Ryan swallows hard and throws off his blankets. Kris doesn’t even stir as he tiptoes to the door, slips into his shoes and steps out into the hallway.

It’s so quiet. The sconces along the corridors are lit, but as he begins to walk, the shadows begin to lurch and twist along the walls like clawing hands. His heart begins to race again, and before he knows it, he’s half-running, half-staggering down the hallway as quietly as he can–

The hallways beyond the squires’ dormitories are completely dark, but he keeps running, up the stairs where he vaguely remembers, then down that corridor too – at least, until some sense of realisation slams into him like an arrow. Ryan skids to a stop, breath catching in his throat–

_I don’t even know where Gordin’s room is…_

And the dark, it – the shadows were crawling across the floor like hands, reaching for him in some dying plea, or, or…!

 _Why did I even think this was a good idea?_ He’d been about to go and bother Gordin in the middle of the night just because he couldn’t sleep. How… how selfish, how pathetic of him…

The hot tightness building up in his chest wells up. He sinks down next to the wall with a sniffle – then realises that he’s _crying_ like some little kid just because – he doesn’t even know why, he’s just so tired and everything from the last three days just fully sinks in and that just makes it even harder to stop.

Something creaks. Ryan’s head shoots up – he hadn’t realised he’d been right next to a door, and that door was opening, and–

“Huh? Is someone…”

Ryan scrambles to his feet, mumbling “sorry, sorry” as he tries to stumble back and away from the open door, until a hand lands on his shoulder. He swallows a half-gasp, half-sob – then the towering figure speaks again.

“I apologise, I didn’t mean to startle you, but were you just… are you alright?”

Ryan tries to nod quickly and shrink away – _I’ll just go back to my room now, I’m sorry, I won’t bother…_

“Hey, wait a moment… you’re – I know you… you’re Gordin’s brother, aren’t you? One of the new squires, right? He pointed you out to me a while ago – at least, I’m pretty sure…” The man’s voice softens. “Oh, I apologise for scaring you – I don’t mean to frighten you. I know your brother, so…”

His thoughts – he can’t quite grasp them, but there’s something about what he had just said, something he should–

“…oh, no, I’m not good at this… please, don’t cry – ah, I’m going to get your brother, everything’ll be okay…”

The man steps away for a moment. Ryan still can’t quite process what he’s just been told until he hears Draug knock on something and a voice – a familiar voice–!

“…it’s the middle of the night, Draug–” A yawn cuts into Gordin’s words. “…what is it? Jagen’s going to throttle me if he catches me yawning tomorrow…”

“I found your brother, ah, crying outside my door – it’s not my fault, I swear, but – maybe he’s looking for you…?”

A moment of silence.

“…Ryan?” Gordin says tentatively, and hearing his voice just causes something to break inside him.

Ryan stumbles past Draug and throws himself into Gordin’s arms.

“H-hey, Ryan! …oh, no, you–” Gordin hugs back, rubbing circles against Ryan’s back – he can’t stop crying, he can’t help it – and then turns back to Draug. “Thanks for telling me, I’ll – handle it, just go back to bed… sorry to bother you–”

“Eh, no worries. Goodnight.”

He can’t quite pay attention to what’s going on past Gordin’s safe embrace. Gordin says something and Ryan clings to him as Gordin heads back into his room, closes the door, and sits them both down on the bed.

“What’s the matter, Ryan? You’re not – you’re not being bullied here, are you? If you are, I – I swear, I’ll…”

Ryan shakes his head and tries to speak. His throat constricts again and he chokes out another sob.

“Hey, hey, ah…” Gordin continues to rub his back, murmuring words, familiar words from all those times in his childhood when he’d stumble into Gordin’s room in tears – Ryan leans against Gordin and properly lets himself cry.

Gordin speaks again when the sobs racking Ryan’s body dwindle away into sniffles. “…Ryan, what is it?”

“…can’t sleep.” He mumbles in response, then realises it’s such a childish thing to say– “I, I can’t… the bandits, the village – I… they – killed, I killed them…”

Gordin somehow puts together Ryan’s jumbled strings of words, and– and his eyes soften, he makes a sympathetic noise and hugs Ryan again. “Oh… so you – that village Prince Marth was talking about, and your platoon… you had to kill people.”

Ryan nods.

“I know that’s hard… the first time is always the most difficult. I… I should’ve warned you, it’s…” Gordin sighs again. “No, I – I apologise. I should’ve known…”

“I–I’m sorry.” Ryan chokes out. “That I – I’m not strong enough to be like you, like Kris or the others, that–”

“Shh, don’t say that.” Gordin gently tucks aside the strands of hair sticking to Ryan’s forehead, and Ryan falls silent as Gordin strokes his hair – just like how Mother did, back then…

“It’s difficult for everyone. It was hard for me, back then, and I’m sure – I’m sure you’re not the only one to feel this way. You’re not weak because of this – you're not any less of a knight. And…”  
Gordin pauses, his expression turning sorrowful for just a moment.

“You were never expected to do this so early… I’m so sorry you were dragged into this. It was – it was our fault as knights that we let those bandits slip through our grasp…”

“N-no, don’t – don’t say sorry… it’s not your fault…”

Gordin is quiet for a moment, hands stilling against Ryan’s hair. “Oh, Ryan…”

He doesn’t say anything after that, only going back to rubbing comforting circles against Ryan’s back. Ryan closes his eyes and leans against Gordin – the steady pulse of his brother’s heartbeat is soothing…

Gordin finally gathers his thoughts together, and opens his mouth to speak – until he realises that even Ryan’s sniffles have dwindled away and his eyes have slipped shut.

“…you shouldn’t have had to go through something like this, especially since you’re so young.” Gordin murmurs as he tucks Ryan in. His younger brother doesn’t even stir.

His brow furrows as he gazes upon Ryan – even in the dimness of his room, there were dark circles visible under Ryan’s eyes. Gordin sighs and grabs a handkerchief to dab away the tear tracks under the younger boy’s eyes, his heart twisting at simply the thought of Ryan having to face all of that by himself.

_He’s already gone through so much… I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help you, and I’m sorry I left you alone for so long back then when I left to become a knight. I’m sorry that I'm not a better older brother for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically unedited, so it's probably pretty repetitive at some points (I tend to do that), but... phew. There's regrettably little about the actual insomnia and more about Gordin doing his best to be a good older brother and comfort Ryan, but that was what spurred me to write (as you can see from how much I've written here compared to previous chapters), so that's what I went with.
> 
> Writing this made me love Ryan and Gordin a lot more. They're just a very good sibling duo and I love them. (...I say, right after smacking them with emotional whump. Well... the more whump I write of a character, the more I love them. It's ironic, but if you're reading this, you probably know what I mean, right? ...right?)


	7. Poisoning (Cecil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil's fear of being poisoned comes to life... only temporarily, but it's still a fear she can't just push aside.

“I’m fine.” Cecil bites out before Ryan can even start to panic at the sight of the arrow deep in her leg. She grits her teeth, grabs it by the shaft and wrenches it out.

“C–Cecil! You shouldn’t, ah, the…”

“It’s just an arrow wound. It’s not going to kill me.” Cecil tosses the arrow to the ground, then straightens up and turns to Ryan. “Come on. We need to regroup with the others.”

“Um, right…” Ryan spares her leg a nervous look, still lingering in place. Cecil clears her throat and he yelps, rushing to catch up with her longer strides.

A sudden, sharp pain stabs through her thigh. Cecil stumbles and snarls, jabbing her sword out at – at no one, but the numbness around the puncture wound has suddenly evaporated into what feels just fire.

_No, no – this… this isn’t–_

“Cecil, what’s wrong–?!”

She sinks to the ground, her shaking legs suddenly incapable of holding herself up, and twists her leg around to inspect the wound.

_…it’s not, it can’t–_ Her heart’s pounding and she feels faint, dizzy, even though she’s lived through worse without ever needing to make a fuss about it. Ryan’s hovering by her side, fidgeting nervously with his bow as he circles around her. “…d-do you need a healer? It – I thought it…”

Cecil suddenly wishes she had inspected the arrow tip before discarding it, but it – she’s put that irrational fear to the back of her mind for so long, and for it to actually happen _now_ – it had to be, there couldn’t be anything else.

“I… I think it’s poison.” She grounds out, hissing as she runs her fingers over the swollen flesh. Blood continues to run from the wound, thin and liquid. She knows, she knows more than enough about it – the symptoms of poisons, the anticoagulant properties of venom, then it’d run through her blood and into her vital organs–

Her throat tightens. “Ryan…”

“I–I’ll get a healer! Please – please wait, I’ll be fast!”

He’s already gone before she can even nod. His footsteps recede into the distance, then she’s alone.

It’s irrational to panic but all she can think of _dying_. Death is something she’s been prepared for, something she knows can happen – but not like this, not after everything she’s survived, to die slowly and painfully by something she won’t even see…

She’s sick and light-headed all at once. _This can’t be it. I can’t die because of some – some poison – I’m not going to die some pitiful death out here, all alone…_

Her fingers curl against the bloodied fabric of her trousers. Pain shoots back up through her leg in response, but it grounds her, at least for the moment. _Stop panicking, stop being so terrified over something like this – stop being so weak and pathetic–_

“Cecil – Cecil, we’re back!”

Yuliya drops to her knees by Cecil’s side, a staff in hand. Healing magic washes through the wound, and the numbness and pain drains away in its warm glow, skin and flesh knitting back over after what seemed to be too long.

Yuliya huffs as the wound finally closes. “…it’s done.”

Cecil only realises she’s still trembling and her breaths are still coming rapid and shallow, despite everything. Yuliya’s still staring at her, lips drawn in a thin line.

“Thank you, Yuliya.” Ryan speaks, breaking the tense silence – Yuliya’s eyes drift to him, and she only gives him a brisk nod before standing up and brushing down her dress. “If that’s it, I’m going now.”

“…thank you.” Cecil mumbles through a still-tight throat. Yuliya acknowledges her with another curt nod – thankfully not saying anything about her strained voice or shaking hands – and then leaves, presumably to head back to where the rest of the army is fighting.

_…damn it, this – this weakness…_ Her heart is still pounding, and cold sweat prickles down her neck. _And look at much I overreacted to something – something so small…_

“Cecil?” Ryan says quietly.

“It’s nothing.” She mutters, pushing herself to her feet. She’s still feeling pathetically light-headed from the scare, but she staggers onwards anyway – the rush of battle will drown it out soon enough.

And one day, she’ll stop letting that irrational fear plague and debilitate her any longer; she can’t afford to keep on letting her fear of poison render her useless when they need her most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit this is my least favourite of the seven I've completed so far. This was the hardest to write, I feel – to write about something that I personally have never experienced before (like I don't _want_ to be poisoned, but I don't exactly actively _fear_ being poisoned), especially when it's in third person limited omniscent (I just searched that up to be clear – at least, I'm pretty sure that's when it's in third person but mainly in the perspective of a character) and revolving around emotion rather than description is just hard. And it's especially hard when I'm writing about emotion that's meant to be rushed or jagged in a way – there's not really a lot of time for metaphors or other linguistic devices, so it just sounds a lot like I'm 'telling' more than 'showing'...
> 
> Anyway, my mini rant over – I'm just glad I finished this and that I tried to do this, at least. Also, writing in present tense is getting easier – now it's just strange my first two stories are in past tense while everything else isn't... maybe I'll try do a couple in past tense again? (This is also another addition to my [fear headcanons](https://twitter.com/lait_tea1/status/1353740399802634240), so now I've done Luke and Cecil's). Also, it's been a week of these prompts done, and on time, at that! Would I be so bold as to even hope that I can finish all of Febuwhump on time, too...?


	8. "Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep" (Athena, Horace)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athena deals with a concussed Horace on the battlefield. 'Deals with' meaning 'wondering what to do with the half-unconscious guy lying on the ground' and 'looking on with disappointment as said guy attempts to insist he is fine when he is clearly not'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a relatively short one, but it's a lot more light-hearted than my previous two (or more, I can't remember) pieces, even if it does include a concussion.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure how to write Athena's thoughts. Even if I'm using third person, I usually go for a third person limited perspective – which usually means writing in a way that's kind of in their view, I guess? But that also cuts down on a lot of vocabulary that I'd feel Athena wouldn't use and after yesterday's attempts, I didn't really want to do that, so I just left it as it is.
> 
> The tense might slip into past at some points. I fixed some of the errors just now but I'm too lazy to go through and look again for now. Apologies for that if you catch any – I'll come back to this another time to edit those out. Maybe.

“Hey. No time to sleep. Get up.” Athena pokes Horace with the end of her sword sheath and huffs as his eyelids flutter. “Ve cannot stay much longer. Ve are in battlefield, ve need to move fast.”

Horace makes an unintelligible noise, but doesn’t move to get up.

Athena kneels down and pushes a hand against his forehead. Blood smears across her fingers as she parts his hair and squints, eyebrows drawn tight together, at the wound–

“Hmm. Head wound. Ve… ve do not know how to fix this.” Athena straightens up again and shakes her head. “What to do…”

The battle hasn’t quelled in intensity around them – though thankfully, after the axeman Athena had dispatched with a thrust through the gut, nobody had attacked them yet. Too caught up in the battle against the rest of the Altean army, she presumes. Perhaps standing her ground and defending his body is her only choice here – with no Vulneraries on hand and the healers too far away, there isn’t much else she can do.

Athena draws her sword again and spares the blue-haired man another look. He’s awake, at the very least, which means he’s alive – good. The glassy look in his eyes and the blood trickling down his forehead doesn’t look good, though.

 _Hm._ She knows head injuries are dangerous, so perhaps leaving him untended to for the rest of the battle wasn’t such a good idea after all. But the man insisted on wearing his heavy armour to battle, and he hadn’t exactly moved to take it off after that strike to the head by the axe’s pommel – hmph, how bothersome. Even if she wanted to try, it wasn’t as if she would be able to carry him anyway – not at least without dropping him on the ground again and bashing him in the head again.

Athena spares a glance around. Nobody’s moved to approach them still, though that might be because of Norne’s arrows. At least the girl’s putting some work in, unlike the man she’s been assigned – or assigned herself – to babysit. As if responding to her thoughts, Horace mumbles “I’m fine, I’m coming” and begins fumbling around on the ground next to him with his hand. “Just… just need to get my… to get…”

His lance had already been snapped in half by the axe from earlier a little while ago – and the pieces were lying halfway across the battlefield – so Athena doubts he’s ‘fine’. At least, ‘fine’ according to the definition Kris had offered her, which had included something like ‘not only alive’, but ’in good condition’. Memory loss and blood covering half of his face probably doesn’t apply to those conditions, Athena decides.

She gives him a prod with her foot again. “Stop moving. Ve vill protect you for now.”

Horace’s bleary gaze turns to her. “I… don’t need to be protected…”

Athena scoffs and puts a foot on his chest – not too hard, of course – to keep him from trying to sit up. He pliantly flops back down and stares at her almost petulantly, or maybe it’s the uncharacteristically dazed look in his eyes that’s making it seem that way.

“Stupid manchild.” At least his responses mean that he isn’t dead, and not dead is good by Athena’s standards. She leaves him be for now, content he won’t bleed out in the next ten minutes or so, and prepares to defend her concussed patient for the time being.


	9. Buried alive (Katarina, Legion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese gets trapped under a pile of rocks after an earthquake hits.

Reese couldn’t feel her legs.

She couldn’t even turn around to catch a glimpse of how the fallen rocks had – likely – crushed her body. She didn’t want to, either – she could, faintly, feel the heavy weight of stone pinning her to the ground, but other than that she could hardly feel a thing… not even pain, which was unexpected.

Reese tried to take a deep breath and her lungs were assaulted with thick dust. She coughed – and the stones pressing down against her lower body shifted. The pointy end of one dug into her arm, not enough to pierce through flesh but enough to threaten the possibility.

Her heart pounded. It was like each thud made the rocks around her shift again, just a little more. But it wasn’t as if she could stop, though the looming stones jutting from what little she could see from her peripheral vision seemed to be inviting it to do just that…

She tried not to shudder at the thought of one of them slipping and – and plunging through her heart, or impaling through her limb and leaving her there to bleed out…

 _Where is everyone…?_ She’d been walking on her own in the tunnel towards the main area of the – the orphanage – when the ground had started shaking.

It had taken her a moment to process. When she’d finally snapped back to reality, the stalactites had already slammed down around her – and she was knocked to the ground by one of them and was enveloped in darkness.

Now, at least, there was a little light – daylight, filtering through the gaps between the fallen rocks. Sunlight was a rare sight, but it was difficult to appreciate with all the dust everywhere… and the rocks threatening to crush her, too.

Reese let out a shallow breath through her nose, watching the dust swirl in the air in front of her. There was little she could do – especially if Eremiya had abandoned her, which… which was an all-too-likely possibility – except wait, either for death or for someone to rescue her.

Despite everything – even her pounding heart and the utterly numb and painless feeling in her legs – there was a sense of peace and calm settling over her. Just a cloud of dust, this… this gentle tranquility, amidst all the danger, the instability of everything around her…

_Maybe it’ll all be okay. If I close my eyes, maybe I won’t feel it when the rocks above finally fall and impale me…_

Another choking breath of dirt and dust.

_It might be better this way._

Reese closed her eyes, because that seemed to be the only thing to do at this point. Watching the jagged shadows of the stalactites cutting across the uneven ground was doing her no good at this point, and if the rocks were going to fall, there wasn’t much else she could do…

Something creaked, like an aching joint. The sounds of rocks, tumbling – a short stab of fear plunged through her chest for just a moment and in spite of her own reassurance to herself, of a quick and painless death, she shut her eyes tightly and prayed to– to something…

“Quick, quick! Brotherses, there is – yes, yes, weses found Reese!”

Light hit her face.

“We knowses you are here!” Legion – one of them – appeared in her field of vision as a hulking shadow. The masked man grinned at her – or maybe not, it was hard to tell – and grabbed her hand. “Come on, come on!”

Another rock tumbled to the ground next to her, narrowly missing her face. Reese coughed. “You… you came back?”

Legion let out a gleeful cackle. “Yes, yes, yes! Weses came back! Weses didn’t see Reese, so all of weses looked for her!”

“Ah…”

And he wasn’t exaggerating – there were at least a dozen of his brothers wandering to and fro, carrying rocks in their arms. One of them deposited his boulder somewhere to her right and came back to grab another one from the pile she was buried beneath.

Legion gave her a tug again. This time, Reese – bolstered by a sudden, newfound burst of motivation to live – pulled as well, and as the rocks began to crash down around them, they managed to pry her out from between the rocks.

Legion scooped her up in his arms. “Uwee hee hee! Timeses to go!”

They fled the crumbling cavern. Reese tried to open her mouth, ask about his brothers – but the bright light of day shining into her eyes after so long in the darkness blinded her. She closed her eyes and finally let herself fall limp; _They – he – they came back for me…_

Even the pain of her mangled legs couldn’t stop her from finding some relief in that. Reese finally allowed herself to close her eyes and let Legion carry her back – back to Eremiya, and Clarisse, and to wherever he was taking her…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be part of the '[fears](https://twitter.com/lait_tea1/status/1353740399802634240)' series that I was doing within this challenge, but I kind of got sidetracked on the way. And it's a little tiring having to try channel all that fear almost three times in a row (Ryan and Cecil came right after the other; even though Ryan's one isn't about the fear I put down in the headcanon, I still had to write about him being terrified), plus most of this came pretty naturally while I was writing so I'm happy to leave it as it is. Maybe Katarina (or still Reese right now) properly thinks about the situation she went through a while later and then realises how terrifying it was, especially to think about dying like that?
> 
> Anyway, that aside... the next prompt definitely gives me Katarina and Kris vibes. (Yeah, I don't actually have anything planned for any of the prompts... or most of the prompts) I'll see how that goes once I get started on that...


	10. "I'm sorry, I didn't know" (Kris, Katarina)

“I was born in a town called Knorda. Have you heard of it? I… know it all too well.”

Kris listened in silence as Katarina told him her story.

Despite the horrors she recounted, her expression never wavered. It was steadfast, solemn, and there was a hint of sorrow in those big, dark eyes Kris had come to recognise as those of his dearest friend and the platoon’s diligent tactician – but not once did she seem to recognise how cruel, how barbarous that everything inflicted on her was.

_Beaten like an animal. Wandering the streets hungry. “Once, one of the merchants passing by the market dropped his medallion down into the sewers… he said he’d give me five hundred gold if I went down there and picked it up for him. When I did end up finding it and giving it back, he nearly ran me over with his horse carriage after tossing me a pouch… and there was only ten gold in it, but he left before I could ask him, so… but ten gold is better than nothing, right?”_

“I… I’m sorry.” Kris mumbled. “I didn’t know… that you’d gone through all this…”

Katarina was quiet for a long moment.

“But – but… you never said, I–” He swallowed nervously. Katarina’s uncharacteristically stony mask was unnerving, especially in the darkness of the hallway, though his uneasiness had nothing to do with Katarina herself, at least in the present moment. He took a deep breath. “So… you – you left Knorda, right…? I mean, you’re here, so that…”

Strangely enough – Katarina’s somber expression finally softened, and she… smiled, much to Kris’s confusion. “…That’s because someone was there to save me. She showed me the – the meaning of life… I felt that I would do anything for her. Kris, do you have someone like that in your life?”

“I…” Kris desperately wanted to ask her more, about – about her mysterious saviour, yet Katarina’s sudden change of topic… “Yes, I suppose. I’d… I’d remain loyal to a lord. That’s the kind of knight I aim to be.”

He mentally smacked himself almost instantaneously after the words left his lips. _By Naga, she’s telling you about something like this, and – and you talk about wanting to be a knight–? You should’ve just answered her question properly – like say something about your grandfather, or, or anyone else…!_

Katarina didn’t seem to notice his current predicament, or maybe she simply didn’t mind his foolish response… either way, something else softened in her eyes, and a quiet bubble of laughter spilled from her lips. “Ah… yes, that’s right. You’re also doing it for someone else…”

The smile across her face became – more forlorn, if Kris had to guess for a word to use, but he didn’t know _why_. There was no time to ask, though; as soon as he’d seen it, it was gone, and Katarina’s familiar, pleasant smile returned just as quickly. “And as you say… we’ll be Altean knights soon, won’t we? It won’t be long now. And when that happens…”

Kris opened his mouth to apologise – _Wait, I didn’t mean to interrupt such an important moment with my stupid answer – Katarina, I’m sorry–_ but Katarina had already started speaking before he could.

“Goodnight, Kris.” She turned away, firelight shadowing what little Kris could see of her face. “…see you tomorrow.”

The click of her shoes on stone tile echoed away into nothingness. Kris swallowed around the hard lump in his throat, but there was no dislodging that terrible, sinking feeling that he had said something disastrously wrong…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Kris thinks he's screwed up and that Katarina's mad at him for saying something inappropriate for the mood, Katarina actually finds his response almost comforting in its familiarity, because that's such a Kris thing to say – if not for the fact she's also too caught up in her own despair of what she has to do tomorrow. At least, that's what I wanted to portray, but it doesn't really look that way... well, I'll just leave it as it is now, because I don't want to edit it and make that too 'in the reader's face' either. Or does it look like Katarina's just trying to change the subject by moving on to mention their knighting tomorrow? I don't even know anymore.)
> 
> I can't even get my characterisation of Kris consistent throughout everything I've written. If I was using my usual headcanon version of Kris here, he'd be just as oblivious as Kris is in the actual game and not think that going "hey right knighthood!!" directly after Katarina spills (half) of her tragic life story is a bad idea... (though, to be fair – I only realised how jarring that response is after rewatching the cutscene again. Like, she tells him about all the terrible things that have happened to her in Knorda... and Kris doesn't say anything about it after that??)


	11. Hallucinations (Roderick, Cecil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderick is woken by Cecil having fever hallucinations in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha... oops... was this meant to be a whump challenge again? I'm having too much fun writing about low-stake situations in the midst of all this and I just had to squeeze some (hinted at/somewhat) Roderick/Cecil in there. (Now I'm looking back on it... not really, but hey, they interact, right?)
> 
> Ironically, doing this challenge makes me I feel that I'm a lot better with writing less heavy themes and more fun, wholesome, slice of life type stories. But hey, I started this, so I might as well finish it (and I can't say that I don't enjoy writing more whump that's in the middle of this – physical injury and battle followed by wholesome scenes of friends worrying over each other). I also apologise to anyone trying to read my chapters about my long chapter notes – I just tend to ramble a lot and I like using this section as a reflection space for each chapter, so one day I can look back and see how I felt about each part... Anyway! Never mind me, onwards with the chapter!

Roderick startled awake when something closed around his wrist.

It took him a moment to recognise his surroundings: white beds and tiled floors, a lantern casting its amber glow across the infirmary floors. He blinked blearily and turned his attention towards the person in the bed he was sitting next to. “…Cecil?”

Cecil’s grip tightened around his wrist and she glared at him silently, cheeks flushed with fever.

“What is it?” He tried to pry her fingers off his wrist, but she was holding it in a death grip. She mumbled something incomprehensible and pointed to the other corner of the infirmary with her other hand.

Roderick squinted. “Is… something bothering you? Do you want the lantern to be put out?”

Cecil did not respond and continued pointing.

_I don’t see anything…_

Her grip slackened. Roderick took the opportunity to slip from her grasp – but almost instantly, Cecil swung out an arm at the thin air on the opposite of the bed and began yelling incoherently.

He was glad they were the only ones in the infirmary in the middle of the night. Even so, he shushed her and tried to grab and hold back her arms so she wouldn’t fling herself out of the bed with the momentum of her punches. “Cecil, calm down–”

 _Is she dreaming?_ The thought hit him as he was trying to wrestle her back onto the bed. He paused, then leaned over to get a better look.

 _…her eyes are still wide open._ That was a little uncanny.

Cecil’s hand closed around his arm again. “You’ve… move, they’re right there…”

“Who?”

She glared at something over his shoulder. Roderick grabbed her fist before she could flail it at him and pushed her hand back down against the mattress, then turned to look over his shoulder; there was nobody there. “I think you’re hallucinating. Just go back to sleep…”

Hallucinating Cecil didn’t take very well to being restrained. She mumbled something that might have been a threat and – out of the blue – headbutted him in the nose.

Caught by surprise, he jolted back, pulling a hand to his face. It wasn’t a particularly powerful blow, thankfully (maybe she was half-asleep), but it still hurt.

With a painstaking sigh and a lot more caution, he straightened up and approached Cecil again. “Look, you… I don’t know what you’re seeing, but whatever it is, it’s not real – and I’m not trying to hurt you, so please, calm down…”

Cecil’s eyes flicked over to him. “…Rody?”

He had to stifle a sigh at that. _…I thought only Luke used that nickname._ Even so, he responded as he would: “Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

The concern creasing her brow seemed to soften somewhat. “Where… what is…?”

“The infirmary. You broke out a high fever yesterday evening, remember?” _And I offered to stay and watch over you, and you tried to refuse but fell asleep in the middle of your delirious shouting…_

“Mm…” Her gaze turned vacant for a second, then she snapped back to attention. “Ah… behind… behind you…”

“It’s just your mind.” He repeated firmly. He turned – there was nothing behind him, of course – and waved a hand through the thin air. “See? There’s nothing there.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s just your fever making you see things. Just close your eyes and go back to sleep–” He swallowed back his own yawn at that, “–and get some more rest… it’ll be gone in the morning.”

Cecil blinked at him, then cocked her head to the side. “…gone?”

Roderick nodded and took a step closer, thankful that Cecil’s earlier frenzy had died down as quickly as it had came. Taking the fact she wasn’t trying to swat him away as permission, he pushed her back down onto the bed and tucked the sheets around her.

He’d turned back around to pull his chair back over again when Cecil suddenly made another noise. “Hmm… Rody?”

“Yes?”

“…you’ll… you’ll keep watch…? Keep the… them away…”

He turned around again. Her eyelids had already fluttered shut, but he moved to gently brush back her dishevelled hair from her sweaty forehead; still hot, but not dangerously so like yesterday.

“…I’ll protect you from the – from them.” He agreed, even though his own eyes were threatening to slip shut. The only response he received was the whistle of breath between her lips and the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He sank back into his chair, wincing at the stiff wood prodding against his back (–the other infirmary beds around them looked temptingly more comfortable than his chair, but he reminded himself that he was here to watch over Cecil…), and leaned forwards, propping up his head in his hands.

 _…I wonder if she’ll remember this tomorrow._ He was intrigued to know what she was referring to, or at least whatever had had her so worked up in the middle of the night. Speaking of the middle of the night…

_Maybe I can rest my eyes for… just a second… if there’s anything important to deal with, she’ll end up waking me up again, so…_

He’d fallen asleep in his chair before he could finish that train of thought.


	12. "Who are you?" (F!Kris, Marth)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kris is summoned to Askr, but despite the familiar faces, an unwelcome surprise awaits her...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is inspired off the Forging Bonds conversation with F!Kris. It probably would really suck to be ripped out of your own world and put into a place where you recognise all your friends, but they don't even know you...
> 
> Also, the Marth that shows up first is one from Shadow Dragon and before the events of FE3 Book 2/FE12, even though I know in actual FEH, there are technically no Marths that are from that world (even original Marth is said to be from Mystery of the Emblem as well). I had written about half before realising but I didn't want to remove him, so I just left it as it was.

“…and this is the dining hall, where meals are served basically all day long! In fact, most of the time, it’s the Heroes here that do most of the work: cooking, cleaning… we have a list of jobs for everyone–”

The green-haired girl in Kris’s group suddenly gasped out loud. “Jaffar?! Is that you?”

She’d taken off like a bolt before Anna could say anything else. Anna shot everyone else a rueful smile, though she didn’t seem particularly fazed by the girl’s sudden leave. “Well, this is basically our final stop. I know it’s been a pretty rough day for all of you, being summoned out of the blue, but we hope to make your stay as enjoyable as possible in Askr. So, this is the best place to find someone that you know – hopefully some familiar faces here will make your stay more comfortable. Unless you have any more questions, you’re all free to leave!”

The scowling white-haired man in the black coat stormed away, muttering something under his breath. The other members of the group bid their farewells and wandered off in their own directions. Anna, catching Kris’s inquisitive stare, turned around and smiled.

“You’re–”

“Nope. That was probably my sister in another world. Merchant, red hair, right?”

“Ah… yeah.” Kris faltered. “How did you–?”

Anna waved a hand in the air. “You’re not the first to ask me that, and certainly not the last. There are a lot of my sisters out there.”

“I see…”

“You’re… Kris, right? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Uh…” Kris blinked. “I don’t think so… not at the moment, at least.” She cast a glance across the bustling dining hall. There were people everywhere – her eyes lingered on what appeared to be a purple-haired girl cowering by a table next to several other people in similar dress, before her attention was snatched by the flash of blue hair at the corner of her eye…

Anna nodded and smiled, offering only a wave. Kris mumbled her thanks and spun on her heel to bound across the dining hall, shouting an apology to the tall red-haired man she nearly ran into on the way.

“Sire!” She called above the din, arms flailing above her head in some attempt to catch his attention as soon as she was several meters away.

She skidded to a stop in front of Marth, unable to stop the uncontrolled laughter from spilling from her lips. “Sire, I am so glad to see you well and alright here–”

Marth turned. Kris eagerly watched as the confusion in his eyes–

He smiled, albeit with a stiff politeness, and lifted his hands in front of himself almost apologetically. “I’m sorry… I believe you have the wrong person.”

“I– sorry?” Kris blinked and did a double-take – the blue hair, the circlet, the outfit – and shook her head. “Prince Marth, this – this isn’t… ha, I didn’t take you for jesting…”

Marth cocked his head to the side. There was – genuine confusion in his eyes, lips turned down in a frown. “I… yes, that’s me… but… who are you?”

“I–” Kris swallowed. Hard. “I’m Kris, sire, you – don’t you remember me?”

His brow furrowed. He didn’t even have to speak; with all her words snatched from her throat in an instant, Kris ducked her head, mumbled “I’m sorry” and spun around–

“No, wait, please don’t go just yet!”

Kris whipped around at the command. “I–I’m sorry, sire, I didn’t mean to disobey–!”

Marth lowered his hands. “Please don’t apologise, ah – Kris, was it? I’m not the Marth you know, so you owe nothing to me – but as I was just about to say… here, in Askr, there are people summoned from multiple different timelines from the World of Mystery–”

“World of Mystery?”

“That is what our world is called, as a whole.” Marth paused. “And these many timelines… from what I can gather, there are many different versions of me here too. Just because I do not come from a world where I would’ve met you… I’m sure at least one of the other versions of me would have come from the timeline you are from.”

Kris perked up. “Then–?”

“They should be somewhere around here…”

“Thank you so much, sire!” Kris bowed, spun around on her heel and sprinted away.

“Ah… I’m not – you don’t have to call me sire…”

-x-x-x-

“I’m sorry.”

“Who are you?”

“You’re not… you’re not the Kris I know.”

Kris recoiled, trying to fight back the frustrated tears that were beginning to build up from yet another failed attempt, and mumbled the words she had gotten all too used to saying: “T-that’s… that’s okay… thank you for your help–”

_Wait._

“A–a moment, sire… you’re – you mean to say, by ’the Kris you know’…?”

Marth frowned. “Well… Kris, he – he was… well…”

“Ah…”

Marth smiled apologetically. “The Kris from my timeline was… a man, yes. You bear a striking resemblance to him in appearance, but…”

Kris tried to smile back, but – “I see…”

_This again… I don’t – it can’t… why is there nobody I know here…?_

“I’m sorry for bothering you.”

_Marth – no… nobody knows me. We’ve fought by each others’ sides through the war – bled and struggled and triumphed together – but nobody…_

“I’ll… I’ll just go…”

_They all speak of – of this Kris – of this Kris who’s a man… to them, I’m – I’m just an alternate version to them, to all of them–_

Kris squeezed her eyes shut and fled.


	13. Hiding injury (Kris, Belf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kris tries to hide an injury. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I did mention once that Kris does have a tendency to hide his injuries (in [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26614534/chapters/64893274) here), I decided to write about it (and specifically this time where he "nearly passes out in Anri's Way because of the wound he was hiding"... except that he actually does pass out, fun).
> 
> Also, why Belf, you may ask? ...I just wanted to make fun of him wearing his coat in the middle of what is essentially a volcano. Like, really, whoever said "Anri's Way is a treacherous path where nobody makes it back alive" or something... seriously, how come half of the people from the previous war are turning up in these so-called 'perilous conditions'? And why is nobody dressed for the weather? I suppose we will never find out...
> 
> (Belf doesn't actually do enough to be given a character tag, I'd feel, but also he's in majority of the chapter so it feels wrong not to at least put his name in the title... I'll probably have to go back and put Legion in the chapter title of that other prompt, in that case)

It was hot.

Actually, hot would be an understatement. There was lava literally meters from their feet – it was shocking that their armour hadn’t just melted off already, though to Kris, it certainly felt like his armour was nothing more than a puddle of steaming metal under the fire dragons’ destructive breath and claws. It was only lucky he hadn’t been vaporised on the spot by their fire breath.

At least the sweltering temperatures were keeping his mind off the throbbing running across his lower ribs. Kris gave the wound a quick glance again and winced, pressing his hand against the torn fabric. It was hard to gauge how deep the injury was, seeing as the red sheen that the lava cast and the rivulets of sweat running down his skin made it hard to actually differentiate what was blood and what wasn’t.

_Once we manage to get a break, I’ll just ask one of the healers to look at it for me…_ It couldn’t be too bad, anyway – he was breathing, he could walk, and he could probably still fight.

Kris couldn’t afford to slow down the army now, too. Especially since they didn’t have the manpower and energy to fight off even more dragons if they stopped now in the middle of this volcanic wasteland. They needed to make quick ground before the next round of dragons came to intercept them…

“…Sir Kris, is it? A pleasure to meet you.”

Kris tried to smile in greeting as he turned, even though it was strained – he hoped that it would be seen as because of the hot weather, and not because…

“A-ah… that coat… you’re… fine?”

Even just looking at the heavy coat Belf was wearing was making Kris feel dizzy. Belf blinked and looked down at his outfit, then back to Kris. “You mean this? …what about it?”

“Uh… never mind.” Kris readjusted the hand on his abdomen and turned his attention from Belf’s coat to the man himself. “…right, um… likewise… good to meet you… uh, Sir Belf.”

They walked side by side in silence for a long moment. Kris could feel the Grustian ex-knight’s scrutinising stare on him, travelling down–

“So…” Kris said quickly, turning his body away from the knight so his cradling of the injury wasn’t so obvious, “…um… you’re… the leader, aren’t you…? Er, of…”

“Yes, of the Sable Order. At least, the remnants of it.” Belf’s eyes flicked back up to meet Kris’s gaze. “We are thankful that Prince Marth allowed us to join your army, even though we had fought on opposite sides during the previous war… and we should extend our thanks to the army for accepting us, too.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, Prince Marth is – a wonderful leader, he’s always like this…”

Then, realising how rudely he had spoken, he quickly tried to amend: “–a-and there’s no need to thank us… as long as Prince Marth feels as if he can trust you, then you’re welcome here as another member of our army…”

_There…. that should do it…_ Kris spared Belf another look – and was horrified to see him still staring at the injury he was still trying to hide under his hand.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Sir Kris–”

“No, no, of course not! I’m fine, I’m good–” His foot skidded on a loose rock on the trail and he wheezed as he accidentally shoved his hand against a particularly painful part of the injury.

Belf’s expression was unreadable, though there looked to be a hint of concern and perhaps disappointment in his eye. “…would you like a Vulnerary?”

“It’s fine, there are other people who need it more…” Kris tried to wave him off with a hand – then realised it was the hand that he had been using to support the injury after seeing the red smear practically covering his entire palm and part of his wrist.

Okay, now he was actually feeling light-headed from seeing the extent of the blood. And there were spots dancing in front of his eyes–

Belf sighed, already prepared with an arm outstretched, and pulled the unconscious Kris to his feet before he could slam face first into the ground. “Could somebody get a healer?”

_…that was quite the first impression, too._


	14. "I didn't mean it" (Cecil, Roderick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One morning, Cecil reminiscences of the incident on Anri's Way and is still unable to put aside her guilt and regret. Roderick does his best to reassure her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... it's hardly whump but I just couldn't do that to them right now, okay? (Also, it's Valentine's Day, isn't it? I'll just use that as an excuse to why this is just 50%+ of fluff) Also, hey, more Cecil/Roderick! Writing about people cuddling in bed is surprisingly therapeutic and I need to do this more.
> 
> The situations they reference are from [Chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26614534/chapters/64893259#workskin) and [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26614534/chapters/64893274#workskin) here (you know, the exact same fic I linked yesterday because it's been on my mind recently).

The line between awake consciousness and the warm blur of sleep was a foggy one. Eventually, though, Cecil was roused from her half-slumber by sunrise itself in an unwelcome ray of light directly across her face.

_…need to get the curtains fixed._ She cracked open an eye, then closed it again with a mumbled swear as white filled her vision. After blinking away the remnants of the spots across the backs of her eyelids, she lifted her head out of the sunbeam and then opened her eyes.

Roderick was still sleeping, fortunate enough to not have been at the receiving end of the sunlight that had so rudely awoken her. Not like they had much longer to sleep, anyway – the new squires would be running around the castle any moment now, causing chaos and all of the sort, and Cain needed their help as assistant instructors for their training.

_It’s hard to think we were like them, once._ They were hardly older than the squires themselves, after all, but – being roped into a war when they were hardly proper knights did do things to the soul. But at the same time… the war pulled them and their platoon closer together, if that was even possible. Cecil couldn’t say she was thankful that there was a war in the first place – because who would? – but… well, now that those near-death experiences were over, she wouldn’t wish for them to have never happened.

_Would I have realised…?_ Especially if that moment on Anri’s Way – the assassins, the biting cold, the icy river – had never happened… and everything before that, really. Cecil’s chest ached each time she reminisced that moment: her harsh words, her reckless actions in a fit of rage….

_Even though we forgave each other for the things we said…_ Her actions – she was the one who was most in the wrong. Words were words, but to act out–

Roderick stirred, almost as if sensing her unspoken words. Cecil remained quiet and motionless until he seemed to have settled back in his sleep again.

“…you might have forgiven me then, but if I’d been just a step closer, a little more careless–” The words caught in her throat. _It had been so close…_

The thin, raised line across his left cheekbone was a grim reminder of how close she had come. It was hardly visible, usually, but when she was face-to-face with him like this…

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it.”

Her words were empty, so empty – words were words, after all. Even spoken a thousand times, they could never amend for what had been done, and now her mistakes – her thoughtless, foolish mistakes – were permanently etched into flesh that wasn’t even hers.

Something twisted in the pit of her stomach. “Why…? Why would you – you still… after that, you should’ve just – why did you accept my apology? You didn’t – you don’t – deserve someone who would hurt you like this. Why did you–”

Roderick opened his eyes.

She hadn’t realised she’d been speaking so loudly. Then again, she was lying less than a meter away in the same bed…

He blinked blearily at her. Then, wordlessly, he extended an arm to pull her close; but at her stiffness and reluctance to allow him to, he frowned and pushed himself upright. “Cecil…”

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Cecil, you were talking about… when we were at Anri’s Way?”

She gave a start. “How did you–?”

“You were talking aloud to yourself… I apologise that I eavesdropped without telling you.”

At the touch of his hand on hers, a request – Cecil finally dragged her unwilling gaze up to meet his. The concern in his eyes made her feel sick, and she couldn’t help but bite out “Why did you forgive me?”

He looked perplexed – or perhaps he was still half-asleep, she wasn’t sure. “Hm…? Did we not – we went over this back then, didn’t we…?”

She swallowed back the dryness in her throat. “…but you – there’s no way you could have forgiven me for coming so close to – to–”

His hands were warm from the blankets. The hand sliding in between her clenched fist – the one she hadn’t realised she had been making – made her grip slacken. She could practically feel his worry at how his fingers ran over the stinging creases in her palm from her nails.

“You didn’t mean it. It was an accident caused by a mistake… and we all make mistakes at some point, so what use is there holding blame over them?”

“But I shouldn’t have–”

His expression suddenly turned serious. “When I was careless during the blizzard, when we were facing the assassins… when they caught me off guard and injured me, and pulled me into the river with them – do you blame me for that?”

“W-what? No, of course not, why would I–?”

“And afterwards, when you found me… you bound my arm, then gave me your coat without a thought for your own wellbeing… you could have died from hypothermia. And for my carelessness in creating a situation like that… would you blame me?”

“That–” Cecil shook her head jerkily. “That – that was a decision I made, and I knew what the consequences would be – I gave you my coat because you needed it more, and because I wanted to – and… accidents happen in battle, and injuries are bound to happen, so it’s not that you were ‘careless’–”

Despite the gravity of the event he was recounting, there was almost an amused look in his eyes. Cecil fell silent, uncertain of _why_ –

“So… what you’re saying here is: you don’t blame me for a mistake I made – for being injured in battle and falling into a river – and for an accident I wound up dragging you into – that is, leading to a situation where you risked your life because of me?”

It took Cecil a long moment to gather her thoughts and process what he had said – then what she had said.

The corner of his lip quirked up into a knowing smile. “So, the fact you made a mistake that did nearly hurt me – why would you feel as if I wouldn’t be able to forgive you for that, if you can forgive me for a mistake I did make so easily?”

“That – it isn’t the same…”

The rest of her attempts to protest left her body in a defeated sigh. Roderick hummed and reached out to pull her close again – this time, she let him, and she mumbled something like “it isn’t fair you get to outwit me like this when I’m half asleep” as he continued to stroke the back of her hand reassuringly.

“I know you didn’t mean it, and that’s all there is to it.” He paused, eyes softening. “If hearing it from me does not reassure you… I hope my explanation does.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just–” Cecil sighed again. “…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. As long as you feel at ease… that is all I need.”

They lay in silence for a long moment, basking in growing light that was beginning to fill their room.

Cecil was only snapped out of her comfortable stupor by the sound of voices from the courtyard below. “Oh – we’d better get ready.”

“Right… If we’re late to Sir Cain’s training session–”

“If one of the squires saw me leaving your room, that’d be–”

They both stopped and stared at each other for a long moment.

Roderick blinked. “Ah… that, too…”

Cecil felt her cheeks warm as she quickly – albeit reluctantly – freed herself from his embrace. “In that case, I’ll just… go…”

Roderick cleared his throat, eyes averted. “Right… I’ll see you in the courtyard, then.”

She paused. “…dining hall first.” She corrected, her hand on the doorknob – then before she could end up lingering any longer, she opened the door, slipped out and was gone; and with it, the worry and guilt of their previous conversation swept away like a murmur on the wind.


	15. "Run. Don't look back." (Marth, Elice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time he ever sees Elice.

Marth stumbled to a halt by the throne, chest heaving. A sound behind him – he whipped around, lifting his sword in both hands, but his stance immediately loosened as a familiar face approached.

“Sister, what’s happening?” He asked, words tumbling out in a single breath as he rushed to her side, sword still tight in his grip.

“Steady yourself, Marth.” Elice’s expression was somber, much to his dismay; even with the dire situation he had just faced, he had been hoping to expect… “I have grave news. Our father was defeated by the Dolhr-Grust allied forces.”

_So – so that… the soldiers that tried to attack me…_

“It was Gra.” She said, as if reading his expression. “Our own ally betrayed us and struck Father’s army from the rear.” She lowered her head, eyes downcast. “I am… I am not sure if he’s safe. The scouts who returned gave conflicting reports.”

His own chest throbbed painfully at the thought. “Father… it can’t be…”

Elice met Marth’s gaze again. “As we speak, soldiers sent by Gra are trying to take the castle. Mother and I were separated during the escape… I do not know where she is.”

_Mother, too? –no, Mother, you can’t…_

“Marth, I need you to listen to me.” The sudden, sharp tone in Elice’s voice pulled him from his stupor. “You must flee the castle. Go on without me.”

The hard, tight lump building in his throat became an icy stone. “What–? I can’t – I’m not going to leave…”

She shook her head. “We’ve not many soldiers left… This is hard to bear, I know, but the castle is lost. We must face that.” Her eyes softened, despite her firm tone. “I will look for Mother and join you as soon as I can. You find Jagen and get away from here – far away. Understand?”

Marth swallowed hard, but at the solemnity in her eyes, he relented. “…all right. But… promise you won’t be long… okay?” The crack in his own voice betrayed his own thoughts, his fears – but Elice did not say a word about it.

“…ah, Marth. Take this…”

He blinked as she lifted her circlet in both hands. Its weight – warm, from having been pinned against her hair moments ago – settled against his head as she slid it into place. “Elice…”

She offered him a gentle smile – familiar, but in the moment, hauntingly so – as she lowered her hands. “Take it for good luck… keep it safe for me now, alright?”

The dryness in his mouth refused to let him say another word, and all he could manage was a weak nod.

Then there was nothing more he could do, or say. Elice whispered “go, now” and he spun on his heel and ran.

Elice watched until Marth’s shadow disappeared from sight on the stone walls before finally letting her smile slip from her face.

_Run… and don’t look back._

She clasped her hands in front of her chest and lowered her head, hair falling around her face like a veil…

“Goodbye, Marth. May you live long…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this takes place in Shadow Dragon, should I tag that as well instead of just New Mystery? Anyway, that aside, I went back to the Shadow Dragon script for this, and while reading through it, it reminded me of how much Marth had to go through then. Even with the sillier moments (ahem, "Yow! It's an enemy ambush!" and the... plan with putting Gordin in the uniform of a Gra soldier? Still not sure how that works), the Prologue of Shadow Dragon is just... there's just a lot to take in, from Marth being forced to leave his home and his sister (and Marth's realisation/understanding of the responsibilities that have been put on his shoulders – the quote "my life is no longer mine to hazard" particularly sticks out to me), then we hear about Cain and how he was the only survivor... 
> 
> Ahem, anyway, never mind my ramblings... for how much I'm sitting here talking about how poignant the moments are in Shadow Dragon, this is just a quick sort of 'short novelisation' of that moment where Elice tells him to leave. This piece isn't as... emotion-evoking as I'd like it to be (I realise I tend to feel this way when I have very limited control over the dialogue, since this is basically just taken from the actual script), but I did squeeze in that extra scene with Elice's circlet. I should really stop rambling in the chapter notes...


	16. Broken bones (Luke, Roderick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke breaks a bone while protecting a child from bandits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _yeet the baby_

Ruffians and bandits are not uncommon enemies for them to face, especially with their tendencies to pick on innocent civilians and their villages during the war. But– man, Luke hated having to deal with the particularly barbarous ones, the ones that caused havoc and suffering for the sake of it. Apparently, this gang they were facing was particularly stubborn with staying rooted in the village they were terrorising.

The second thing that Luke hated about facing bandits in battle was the fact that they fought dirty. Luke could take on a regular soldier any day in a fair fight, but fighting ruffians was like – like trying to dance on broken glass. Using hostages as human shields, setting fire to objects to throw in their way or just straight up setting the village buildings on fire; there was just so much to deal with that Luke would almost have preferred fighting off a dozen regular soldiers in exchange for the bandit he was trying to pursue.

Alas, at the moment, he didn’t really have a choice.

“Let go of the child!” Luke shouted, turning the corner in a skid of dust. “Or you’ll regret it!”

The bandit twisted around, teeth bared in a snarl. The screaming toddler under their arm continued to wail, drowning out whatever the bandit was saying – but if Luke had to guess, it was something about the dead end that they had pinned themselves against… which made his job a lot easier.

Luke skidded to a stop as well, drawing his sword. “It’s over!” He shouted, rather heroically too, if he would’ve added – but apparently, the bandit did not appreciate it very much, and yelled a curse at him while fumbling with the wooden club strapped to his belt.

He’d just about taken one step towards the bandit before they abruptly lifted the child in two hands, and then straight up _threw_ them the other direction.

Luke didn’t even have time to think. He dropped his sword and ran, hands outstretched–

He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride and he caught the screaming toddler before their skull could be split open by the concrete ground. “Phew–! Gotcha, kiddo – man, you’re sure heavy,” he mumbled, stumbling to a stop with the young girl in his arms. “I can’t believe that brute would straight up throw a child–”

_Wait, the bandit–?_ Right, the child had been a distraction – eh, but as Prince Marth said, a life saved is better than a villain’s life taken… or something like that. Luke turned around – _They’re probably long gone, but I should give back this kid to… whoever their parents are…_

He hadn’t expected the bandit to still be there, and with their club now in their grip.

“Hey, kiddo, just stay behind me–!” He nearly dropped the sobbing toddler while putting them down in his attempts to fumble for his sword–

_Wait, my sword?_

The grizzled man lunged. Luke shoved himself in between the toddler and the incoming cudgel and lifted his arms above his head–

A splitting crack – but without even lifting his head, Luke managed to launch a kick of his own–

_…if I’ve got to fight dirty to win against some bandits, then so be it._ He thought with a grim smile as the bandit collapsed, hands flying down to cover their groin.

Then his forearm exploded in pain.

His vision turned blurry as he lowered his arms and tried to move them– shards of red-hot glass radiated _fire_ out through his flesh, and before he knew it, he was lurching to one side in some attempts to find something to lean against as his arm screamed in protest.

_Owow that hurts–_ The child was crying again, a piercing screech to his foggy consciousness, but Luke could hardly focus on anything else but how it was like his blood had been set alight and it was spilling down _burning_ through his bone–

He cracked open an eye – when had he closed it? – and at the sight of his forearm in a mangled V shape and bent in a way which _shouldn’t have been possible_ –

“…Luke? Luke!” Footsteps – then he yelled as something brushed against his arm and the shards of glass in his flesh shifted to scrape against his bone.

“Ah–” A mumbled word, “Sorry– but we need… can you stand up?”

He forced his eyes to open again, and this time not focusing on his arm – a blur of green, _Rody?_

It took Luke a long, agonising moment (for him, at least, and ow his arm) to realise he still had a question to answer. Instead, he bit his lip to muffle himself and – indeed, with a muffled scream into a bloodied lower lip – he set his good arm on the ground and pushed himself upright with the wall as leverage, wavering in place for a moment while everything whirled around him.

“Lean on me.” Something pressed up underneath his good arm, and Luke gratefully took the opportunity to collapse the rest of his weight against it as his arm pulsed with fiery pain again. Roderick stumbled under the sudden weight – Luke hissed as the jerky motion jostled his right arm – then wrapped his own arm around Luke’s shoulder to support him.

“Sir Wrys should be nearby – just stay with me a moment longer.” Despite the relative steadiness of his voice, it seemed to be pitched up with agitation – Luke would have almost laughed at that if not for the fact his arm hurt too much to even move. 

Also, because of the fact that it was _his_ arm hurting and mangled in such a way that he couldn't bear to look at it himself.

“The kid, we’ve gotta –I’m– not dying yet,” he managed to make out, though he almost shocked himself with how thin and weak his own voice sounded, “Need to… get them back first…”

“Ryan’s already handling that. We need to get you healed now – your bone, it…”

“Yeah, I sure know it’s my bone…”

Roderick probably would’ve sighed – Luke knew the guy well enough to know, even if he couldn’t see his face right now through his pain-hazed vision. “…I can’t believe you. Just – we’ll find Sir Wrys first, and then you can snark all you want after your arm is fixed.”

Luke managed a snort at that, but instantly regretted it as his arm blazed with pain again. He relented to stay quiet as they stumbled their way towards – wherever Roderick was taking him…

Okay, perhaps he wasn’t completely silent, but a couple (or a dozen) mumbled swears probably weren’t going to tarnish Prince Marth’s reputation _too much_ given his situation…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite enjoyed writing this because it combines two of my favourite things to write about: a dosage of physical injury and pain for our unfortunate main character and friends who care about you and drag you off to see a cleric. I apologise for the silly chapter note at the beginning (is it a dead meme? I'm not very good with memes), but I thought it... appropriate, haha.


	17. Field Surgery (Seventh Platoon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kris has a fear of amputation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing a day – I was pretty sick yesterday, so I didn't have much time to write. Good thing is that being sick inspired me for a different prompt, but that's for later... ahem, anyway, another addition to [fears](https://twitter.com/lait_tea1/status/1353740399802634240) series for the Seventh Platoon. Hopefully I'll be able to catch up with the prompts soon...!

“No, no, you can’t– don’t cut it off, I can’t fight without–!”

Kris’s hysterical babbling was getting onto Cecil’s nerves, because she sighed and smacked him in the face – lightly, of course. “We’re not going to cut off your arm, but we need to get the rest of the shrapnel out, otherwise we’re really going to have to chop it off. It shouldn’t be any worse than what you’ve usually dealt with–”

“No, no–!” Kris shook his head violently, nearly headbutting Ryan, who was kneeling by his head and trying to pat Kris for some kind of reassurance.

Ryan shuffled away nervously. “Uh… is it just me, or is he…?”

“Can’t.” Kris repeated, eyes wide and glazed as he tried to draw his arm closer to himself, only for Roderick’s hold on it to keep it pinned to the ground, “Let me go, let me–!”

“We’re not going to amputate your arm.” Roderick repeated. “But with no healers around anytime soon, we have to get all the shrapnel and fragments out, otherwise it’ll get infected.”

Luke scoffed. “Seriously, it’s just a little bit of digging around in there to get out all the bits–”

Ryan whimpered.

“–you’ve literally taken blows to the gut that would fell a horse, so seriously, what are a couple of flesh wounds going to do to you?”

“You’re–” Kris shook his head frantically, “I– just leave it, I can make it to a healer–”

“We can’t let your arm get infected now.” Roderick said, frowning. “You have to let us extract the worst of it, at least.”

Cecil gestured with the dagger in her hand. “Look, we promise to disinfect this thing at least three times first and not accidentally cut your arm straight off while using it on you, alright?”

Kris’s squirming increased by twofold at Cecil’s mention of amputation.

They’d never seen their platoon leader look so panicked before, and especially not for something as, well, small as this; Kris looked almost to tears as he tried to wriggle out of Roderick’s grip. It was only the fact that Luke was sitting on Kris’s legs and that Kris was probably not trying to hurt his friends (unlike last time) that kept him from actually escaping.

“…please, Kris, we don’t want to see you – see you hurting more than you have to…” Ryan said quietly. “We – we don’t want you to lose…”

Kris blinked glassy-eyed at them, looking uncharacteristically _fearful_ at the blade in Cecil’s grip. “…I don’t want to… I can’t – I can’t fight – protect Prince Marth – without – without–”

“That’s why we need to remove the shrapnel in your arm so we can help prevent that.” Roderick said patiently. “If it reassures you, if we can remove it now… there’s a very low chance it will get infected, and an even lower chance we’ll have to… amputate the limb entirely.”

“Yeah, c’mon. Look, I’ll even let Rody do the thing with the knife or whatever, if you don’t trust me or Cecil with it.”

“Hey–!”

“So, how about you just close your eyes and try to think of something else? Uh, maybe… imagine, I don’t know, Princess Caeda–”

Cecil slapped Luke with the hand that wasn’t holding the knife.

“Ow–! Hey, I was just trying to help – I didn’t even finish what I was going to say…!”

Kris smiled at their antics, although it was strained. Luke turned back to their commander, still rubbing his reddening cheek. “So, what’cha say, Kris the Ordinary? Just lie nice and still, and we’ll help you out, okay?”

Kris let out a shaky breath. Instead of responding, he closed his eyes tightly – lips peeled back into a grimace – and turned his injured arm to allow them a better angle at the particularly large and jagged pieces of glass and iron buried in his flesh.

Cecil dumped the last couple of drops of their vulnerary over the blade of the knife and wordlessly handed it to Roderick.

“I apologise we have nothing to numb the pain, but we’ll have to make do with what we have…”


	18. "I can't see" (Ryan, Kris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan is blinded by light magic.

Kris’s head shot up at the resounding scream. “Ryan–?! What is it?”

Ryan was clawing desperately at his face, much to Kris’s horror; Kris ducked low beneath the parapet and hurried over, grasping the younger boy’s wrists to keep him from scratching. “Ryan, Ryan, I’m here – what is it? What are you…”

Ryan whimpered, tensing in Kris’s grip. Kris gently but firmly pulled his hands away from his face–

“I – I can’t see…”

Kris’s blood ran cold. Ryan’s pupils were – were gazing blankly out past Kris, despite the terror written across his face… they looked chillingly empty and dull, as if someone had really just torn… “You can’t–? What – what happened just now?”

Ryan turned the direction of Kris’s voice, his pupils swivelling with his movement. “I… I don’t know– there was just… I was aiming at this – this mage, and I think they were about to throw a fireball at me, but before I could shoot my arrow, suddenly there was a bright light a-and I can’t see anymore–!”

Kris hesitated. “A mage?”

Ryan sniffled. The large, wet teardrops that were already making their way down his cheeks were unsettlingly out of place from his glassy eyes. “I… does this mean I… I can’t – I can’t be an archer anymore – I can’t…”

“Hey, hey, calm down… deep breaths, now – deep breaths.” Kris spared a quick look over the parapet at where the battle was still raging on. The rest of the platoon, on horseback, were somewhere – out there, but…

“How am I– what use is an archer that can’t see–?! I’m – I’m just a deadweight to you now, you might as well just – just throw me out of the army and–”

“Don’t say things like that!” Kris said, just a little sharper than intended. Ryan’s distraught tirade immediately cut off in a terrified squeak.

“Even if you can’t see, you – you’re not a deadweight. The rest of our platoon, we’ll – we’ll find some way, we won’t leave you… besides, we’re the Seventh Platoon. You know that none of us would ever abandon a teammate. Even if I – I’d lost an arm, or if… anyone else… either way, you wouldn’t just leave any of us, right?”

Ryan hiccupped and nodded. Even so, his head sank to his chest; “But… what can I… I can’t do anything if…”

“We’ll figure out something later – I’m sure Sir Wrys or any of the other clerics can help you. Besides…”

The nagging thought finally struck home.

“You said it was a mage, right? Do you think… it could’ve been some sort of blinding spell, or maybe the light magic just… temporarily blinded your eyes, like how if you look at the sun?”

“I’m… maybe…?” Ryan’s voice rose in hopeful pitch.

Kris continued to reassure him, a hand on Ryan’s shoulder: “In that case, there’s a very high chance it’s only temporary, right? If it really was just magic, there has to be something that can cure it. Or maybe it’ll just go away after a while, and all you have to do is wait?”

“R-really?”

“I have faith on our healers… they’ve got to know something.” Kris desperately hoped he wasn’t just unknowingly lying to Ryan.

Ryan moved to sit up – probably out of excitement. Kris quickly held out a hand to stop him – then remembered Ryan couldn’t see, and instead nudged Ryan back into a seated position beneath the parapet. “Hey, wait, the battle’s still going on. It’s unsafe to stick your head up there… just sit still and wait, and I’ll bring you to a healer as soon as possible.”

“U-um… sure… if it’s – soon…” Ryan blinked again, then twisted his head up to face the sky. “N-now that I’m – I’m thinking about it… it’s kind of weird – I can feel the sun, but… I can’t even see the – the red…”

“Hey, hey, wait, don’t do that.” Kris looked around, mind racing, then tugged his own scarf off to pull around Ryan’s eyes. Ryan let out a squeak. “K-Kris, is that you–?”

“It’s just my scarf.” He reassured. “Can’t have you accidentally blinding yourself – er, hurting your eyes… even if you can’t see the sun now, it’s still going to damage your eyes if you look directly at it, you know.”

“O-oh…”

“I promise I’ll get you to a healer as soon as possible. Just keep that over your eyes and sit tight, okay?”

Ryan nodded in response. Kris reached out to readjust the blue fabric around his eyes, then moved to take his position back underneath his section of the parapet. “Don’t worry – I’ll protect you from anyone who tries to come our way until then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad every time I have to write about Ryan in this... (well, no, nobody makes me do it – but still) Thankfully, it does turn out to be temporary, in the end, and he's perfectly fine in a day or two. (I think I accidentally channeled some of Kris's fear from last chapter when writing this chapter – but I thought it fitting, especially for an archer)
> 
> On another note, I'm also not sure what Kris is doing up there (I'm not even sure if it's 'up' – I just took the parapet idea and went with it, but I haven't actually thought about where they are...). I know technically in FE12 Kris can wield any weapon, but my headcanon of Kris is that he just uses swords (and maybe knows how to use a lance), so... I guess he's up there for some reason with Ryan. Well, never mind that...


	19. Sleep Deprivation (Cecil, Roderick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderick ends up catching that illness that Cecil had (in Chapter 11).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is less about actual sleep deprivation and more about the illness, actually... maybe one day I should write something actually revolving around sleep deprivation, but I needed somewhere to complain about how miserable being sick is; and what I wrote about isn't even the worst of it. (Which is partially the reason why this chapter seems to go everywhere in terms of writing, because there was a lot I wanted to write but a lot of it sounded either too irrelevant or... was just too much about me rambling).
> 
> Anyway, since I finished writing this pretty early in the day, maybe I'll be able to catch up with the twentieth prompt today too...? I'll see later...

“Heh, I thought you were meant to be the lance guy in our platoon. Can’t believe I hit more targets than you did – with the javelin, no less!” Luke teased, prodding Roderick in the side with his elbow. “Next thing you know, I’ll be even better than you at the lance!”

“Mhm… perhaps.”

Luke grinned. “Heh, even you think so? …wait a sec.”

Cecil frowned, her absent-minded twirling of her training javelin coming to a halt as she turned to face the other two cavaliers.

Luke gave Roderick another nudge. “Hey, what’s up? You’ve been off lately, now that I’m thinking about it…”

Roderick stumbled at the jab in the ribs, though Cecil was already reaching out to steady him.

“…hmm?” Roderick finally responded, after several long moments of silence between the other two. He turned towards Luke, then to Cecil, who still had her hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“See?” Luke crossed his arms. “Told you something was off.”

Cecil glared back. “Told _me_?”

Roderick looked between the two of them, though his gaze looked so distant it was hard to tell if he even was looking at them. “Oh… sorry, I was…”

Luke waved away whatever response Roderick was about to come up with. “Man, you look exhausted. You sure you got enough sleep last night?”

“I suppose… That… does sound like something I should do…”

“That’s not much of an answer, buddy.”

Roderick blinked. “Well… yesterday’s training must’ve… been particularly tiring, yesterday. It must’ve sapped my strength more than I anticipated… today…”

“Really? That little exercise Sir Cain made us do?”

Luke’s rhetorical question was met with silence as Roderick went back to gazing blankly into the distance again.

Cecil narrowed her eyes and gave his shoulder a shake. Roderick’s eyes snapped back to them again. “Oh, sorry… did you say something?”

“What are you feeling?”

“…hm? I’m… fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Cecil said, withdrawing her hand from his shoulder and instead folding them over her chest. “Answer the question. And don’t lie to me – I’ll know.”

Luke snickered behind her back. Cecil would’ve stepped on his foot if she wasn’t focusing on Roderick’s response.

“I… well… it’s – sore, as I said earlier… since this morning. And… it’s a little – cold, out here…”

“Cold? How–?! We just did a whole training regiment–”

“Shut up, Luke.” Cecil didn’t need to hear any more. She lifted the palm of her hand–

_…I thought so._

“I told you to stop being so close to me when I was sick…” She withdrew her hand from his forehead and huffed exasperatedly, instead reaching out to grab him by the wrist. “We’re going straight to the infirmary.”

“Hey, wait, what?” Luke, who apparently still hadn’t caught on, picked up his pace to catch up with their lengthened strides (well, her lengthened strides and Roderick’s attempts to stumble along, with his wrist in her grasp). “So–”

Cecil sighed. “We’re going to the infirmary–”

“Again–? But you just got let out!”

“Not me, _him_. He has a fever.”

“Oh.”

“If Kris, Katarina or Ryan ask where we are at lunch, and I’m not back…”

“Yeah, got it. I’ll tell them…”

-x-x-x-

A mixture of apprehension and – what she would describe as, strangely enough, fond irritation – welled up inside Cecil as she towed her groggy patient towards the infirmary through the empty hallways – at a slower pace than before, after realising he was struggling to keep up when he nearly tripped over her heels.

“You really didn’t have to keep me company all the time back when I was sick.” And it had only been little less than a week ago, too. “…I know you stayed by my bedside through the night, sometimes – for how long, though…? Dammit – I should’ve tried harder to get you to actually go and sleep…”

Roderick didn’t respond, probably still too tired out from their near-running through the corridors just moments ago.  
“At the very least… I get to repay you for helping me back when – when I was sick.” She could remember her own nights of feverish hallucinations and tossing and turning. He… he had been there by her side, she could remember – even in the middle of the night…

 _Must be why he caught my illness, too…_ Aside from always being at her side, was there ever a time he had properly slept? Cecil could hardly remember amidst her own struggles to rest. Her muscles had hurt all over as if she had run through a hundred rounds of Sir Cain’s training regiment, and it was freezing but also she was sweating all over…

“I’ll – I’ll, uh, try and make some soup. That… that did make me feel better.” They’d finally reached the infirmary. She pushed open the doors with her shoulder – it was as empty as it had been when she had occupied it several days ago, which was completely – though there was a single old man busying himself at one of the tables…

“Ah! Sir Wrys!”

“Oh?” The priest turned with a pleasant smile. “Cecil and Roderick, a pleasure to see you! But the fact you’re here… did something go awry during your training?”

“No, nothing out of the ordinary, but you know how – how I was sick back then…?”

“Ahh, I understand..” Wrys nodded, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he offered a sympathetic smile. “Please, do take a seat – I’ll see if I can get you two settled in…”

Cecil balked. “Er, no, uh – it’s not me, I’m perfectly fine now. It’s just him…”

“Oh, do excuse me… my apologies. Well, you only need one bed, then? Feel free to use any of the infirmary beds, in that case. None of them are occupied.”

“Thank you, Sir Wrys.”

“Of course, it’s no problem at all… Unfortunately, as you might be already aware, my staves cannot cure illnesses…”

Cecil turned around, one of Roderick’s unbuckled pauldrons in her hand. “We’re only staying here temporarily, until the fever dies down or…”

Wrys waved off her explanation with a smile. “It’s alright, lass, you don’t have to tell me. In that case, are you planning to accompany him here for time being? I was hoping I could leave for lunch break – I was just waiting for the other young lady to return, after all – and I’m sure you wouldn’t want an old man like here disturbing you two…”

“We don’t mind you being here, of course, but– well, if you want to leave, I don’t mind staying a bit longer… I mean, I was going to anyway…”

“Thank you, Cecil. It’s much appreciated.” Wrys began to shuffle out the door, humming contentedly. “Ah… young people these days – your naughty sides don’t ever change…”

“…what?” Cecil turned again. The doors had already swung shut behind the old priest. _…he’s surprisingly fast. Well, never mind…_

Roderick had already kicked off his shoes and had immediately curled up beneath the sheets, tucking his knees close to become little more than a lump underneath the white fabric.

She brushed aside that fleeting thought of how uncharacteristic it felt to be watching him being so vulnerable like this – _I must’ve looked the same, too…_ – and looked around instead, searching for something to divert her attention. There was a curtain open; she moved to close it, plunging the room into pale darkness.

“…guess it’s my turn to take care of you, huh?” She mumbled, taking a seat next to the bed in a conveniently placed chair. “You should finally get some sleep now, and it’ll be my turn to watch over you tonight. After all this is over, no more staying up through the night – for the both of us, alright?”

Cecil thought she heard him respond, but when she looked up he had only buried himself even deeper in the sheets. She sighed. “I know, I know, the fever chills are pretty bad at first…”

_…did I really look this miserable when I was sick, too? Well… I can’t blame him – when I was sick, I certainly felt this miserable, so… probably so, yes._

She shook herself from that train of thought. _…never mind that, but… I know that I promised I’d care for him like he did with me, but – how do I do that, exactly…?_

“…soup, maybe?” Katarina might know how to make soup, but…

She sighed again. “No, later. I’ll let you rest now first, and… I’ll figure this all out later.”


	20. Betrayal (Katarina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, of sorts. Katarina's musings in Chapter 16x, but with the bad end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, I... uh... lied, and maybe I might cause some permanent, uh, damage to my favourite characters after all. A warning for this chapter for **major character death** – though I hope it's alright that I don't tag it in the overall fic because it'll probably only take place in this chapter and I don't want to scare people off from reading just because of one chapter.
> 
> I might just come back to edit this at some point and then maybe post it as a whole new work entirely (I don't think there are any rules against that?) because I quite like how it turned out. I think. (I haven't even gone back to reread it yet, haha – I've kind of been doing that for most of my later chapters here whoops)
> 
> That aside... this prompt was basically asking for Katarina. I had been planning to write about the actual scene of betrayal, but... 'Puppets Don't Cry' came on while I was listening to FE12 OST, and I remembered her death quote and I just had to write this. (Her death quote is just so painful...)

_It was always going to lead to this, wasn’t it?_

“Katarina, please!”

Reese looked away as she summoned a fireball, threw it – there was a clang and a scream. Her heart twisted, Kris was panicking; “Luke, why – Luke, no, get up–!”

“Just… save her… you have to… I’m not dying… yet–”

The smell of soot and scorched skin. The reek of scorched flesh, hot and choking, clung to her throat and nose like cobwebs.

_I… had a dream. It was short… but it was a very happy dream._

An arrow hit the floor with a sad thunk, meters away from her feet.

_Your – our knighthood ceremony progressed without a hitch. Kris, you and I… both of us became Royal Guards._

The colours of Altea – blue, clear and bright like the sky. Azure fabric, in their cloaks over their shoulders and Royal Guard uniform. Blue was a colour she had never really known to _exist_ , properly, until she met Kris and the Seventh Platoon.

Blue was the colour of the sky, the sky she looked up to through blood seeping into her eyes and pain in her ribs in a village that was never home, then it was the colour of a sky that existed somewhere beyond and out of sight of her underground life.

But in Altea, blue was so many things: the colours of freedom and light, of peace and hope, of Altea and Kris–

Reese caught a flash of blue from the corner of her eye and flung another fireball in its direction. She didn’t look back to see what happened to it.

_We saved many people, received many thanks. And then, the two of us…_

Disgust. She was revolted with herself; dream…? What dream? She didn’t deserve to be happy, not – not after what she’d done, what she was still doing… _Kris doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near trash like me._

One of the other assassins Eremiya had assigned her toppled to the ground, soundlessly – not even a cry of pain as their bow and arrows slipped from their hands.

The Altean army – the small regiment they did send – was fighting back. They were approaching, funnelling through the valley between the mountains; they were at a disadvantage, Katarina had chosen this place for a reason, but…

“Katarina!” Kris screamed again, startling her from her stupor. Another arrow whistled past her ear, struck another assassin.

“Please… listen to me! Listen to us! You don’t have to do this – just… just put down your weapons, and I promise – I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you…!”

Reese couldn’t help but smile forlornly at that.

“There’s no going back for me, Kris. There’s nothing left for us to say. You and I are enemies… Please fight me. If you don’t, I’ll kill you…”

Despite her words, she was smiling; Reese touched her cheeks with her hands, her lips were pulled up in a smile but there were tears– _What’s wrong with me…? Puppets don’t cry… puppets don’t cry. I do what Lady Eremiya tells me to do…_

Her fingers came away smeared with soot – or perhaps they had already been covered with it. It was hard to tell, with her vision blurred like this. Reese choked out a small laugh – _Puppets don’t cry… I can’t cry if I smile…_ – and flung another fireball with a little more intensity, watching as the smears of green were set alight with red. _I must, I must…_

An arrow nicked her arm. The fresh stripe of red across her skin, dusted with ash, made her smile a little more. _That’s right… I can’t cry… this… this is good…_

Elfire – they were backing away, a line of fire between them and her.

_Come back… I must… you must fight me…_ some little voice in her head pleaded.

The other voice – the selfish one, the broken puppet, begged “ _Stay far away from me, don’t come back–_ ” Reese squashed it and conjured another flame in her hand again.

The fire licked at her skin. Her hand, it – it was bleeding, the skin peeling back – how many Elfires had she cast…? She hadn’t kept count, but it wasn’t enough, not enough to kill them…

A blur of blue through the smoke and fire. Reese lifted her hand.

That tiny, pathetic whine in her head _screamed_.

An iron blade appeared, cutting through the smoke, and–

Reese crushed the ash and powder remaining of her Elfire tome in her left hand, quenched the fire in her right, and stepped forward to meet it.

A choked gasp. She wasn’t even sure if it were hers or his, but – but it brought her immense joy, when she looked down…

“Katarina–!”

She smiled. Genuinely, this time – not to bite back tears or to suppress… suppress herself anymore.

It hurt. Her breaths burbled from her throat, wet and sticky – she’d fallen, she realised, but there was someone… someone holding her…

“Thank… you… now I won’t have to hurt you… anymore…”

Something wet hit her face, but – but it wasn’t her… she wasn’t crying… she was happy…

“Kris… I’m glad I could meet you… during those days of training… you showed me a beautiful, happy dream…”

_A dream I never deserved, but you gave it to me anyway, never expecting anything back… I’m so grateful…_

There were blurry shapes, from the corners of her receding vision: blue, green, red… ah, the Seventh Platoon – her Platoon was here…

“Hey, Kris… Today’s training… is about to begin…”

It hurt to keep her eyes open, but… she was happy… so happy…

“Look, there’s Prince Marth and the others… Don’t… wait for me…”


	21. Torture (Cecil, Ryan, Luke, Roderick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musings, after battling Eremiya's assassins and wandering the assassins' previous home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for the description of one dead body, but the descriptions aren't really graphic, so that's all. (Also, I didn't want to write explicit torture, so there's no actual violence in here at all – I just used the prompt once in a metaphor/(insert literary device here) at the start which spiralled into this, I guess)
> 
> Since this could be read as a follow up to the previous chapter with Katarina, I decided to keep it vague whether Katarina's around or not. My personal headcanon is that Katarina doesn't end up dying and everything turns out fine, so I like to imagine that she's somewhere else with Kris instead... but she could also just not be here. Who knows.

The abyss that had only just been their battlefield was silent and empty. Devoid of the tortured souls, the assassin-puppets, that had once walked these underground halls, their corpses disposed of, but the air was still heavy with some deep-rooted misery. The clinging, viscous tang of iron and stone hung damp in the air, bled and beaten into the stone in the way a blacksmith would hammer and forge a blade against a hissing anvil.

Their torches flickered weakly. Even though their entire army was scattered amidst these ruined halls, clearing out the vacant caverns, the light of their torches were little more than dwindling candles in the quenching, crushing weight of the air itself. There was something about this place that forbid – was simply forbidding, that threatened to choke the words from their throats if they even dared open their mouths…

“The meteor-throwing woman. She’s, like, dead, right?”

The echo of Luke’s voice was met by a sharp hiss and a quiet “ouch!”

“…this place is scary… how did she–?”

Ryan’s torch flickered somewhere ahead in the dark. Cecil lengthened her strides to catch up with the rest of the group.

“I don’t know, Ryan… I can’t believe anyone would even – do something like this. To force children to live in such conditions…” Roderick sounded particularly melancholy, though nobody could blame him. It was hard to feel anything but, when wandering the halls of a place that people once called home…

“Oh – eugh…”

“Luke, be respectful. Even if they were our enemies only moments ago… they are still victims of war, like all of us.” A pause. “We should put her with the others, too…”

Cecil finally reached the trio of fluttering firelight. The three platoon members were standing over something, so she lowered her own torch to better see…

Luke’s expression was hard to see in the dim light, but the revulsion was clear in his voice. “I know, but… still. I can’t ever get over seeing dead bodies like this.”

Ryan looked unusually pale, even in the orange light of his torch. Cecil put a hand on his shoulder; he jumped at first, but settled after realising it was only her.

“It’s… much different, seeing your enemies after death.”

They hadn’t even seen their enemies in the darkness, back when they were fighting. With only their meagre torches (soldiers couldn’t both hold torches and weapons at the same time) and the light of Eremiya’s meteors casting everything in deadly red with each time they descended upon the battlefield, they had hardly been able to see their enemies at all, but now…

The corpse on the ground was of a girl that looked hardly older than they were – or perhaps younger. It was hard to tell, in her pallid face and bony… no, they weren’t bony, but gaunt and lean with muscle that didn’t belong on such a young girl…

“They were orphans, weren’t they? She… Katarina… Kris said–”

“…we can assume so.” Roderick sighed; it seemed to last all too long in the heavy silence. Finally, he turned and addressed them. “Let’s take her body and place it with the others… I believe Sir Merric and the other mages are planning to cremate them, to keep their bodies from rotting here or being eaten by animals.”

Luke picked his way ahead into the darkness to check around the rest of the area as Roderick gingerly lifted the body. Cecil stayed behind, a hand still on Ryan’s shoulder for reassurance… though her own heart was leaden with sorrow as well.

_…if they’re orphans, there’s nobody left to mourn them, or even remember them. And after we burn their bodies… there really will be nothing left to be remembered._

“…could someone take my torch? I can’t carry it while holding her.”

Ryan wordlessly picked up the torch. It was little more than a stick now, with the fire having been quenched by the dust when it was placed on the ground.

“Looks empty, and no more extra tunnels. I think this is a dead end.” Luke returned, footsteps echoing in the desolate cavern.

“Then let’s go back.”

The cremation had already started when they’d returned up to the surface, the smell masked by the fragrance of recently cut wood and flowers.

The smell of burning flowers couldn’t veil the scent of war even when all was still and quiet under Naga’s waning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I have no idea why I keep on thinking Eremiya's 'assassin orphanage' is underground... I don't think it's ever been explicitly mentioned (or maybe I've missed it), but technically it could just be a really dark building... (I guess the chapter title 'Depth of the Abyss' seems to imply it is underground).
> 
> Writing this also makes me think about their customs for the dead... how does it work, exactly? Are there funerals of any kind, or rituals? And how does Naga work? I know he... (she? they?) is seen as the Divine Dragon who goes around giving people stuff like the Falchion and the Binding Shield, but do people pray to them for daily rituals (like thanking them for each meal)? What kinds of things does Naga have power over – or believed to have power over? There's a lot of think about...


	22. Burned (Ryan, Gordin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Ryan burns himself by accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for the usual(ish) dose of what is actually 10% whump and 90% fluff? Because that's what you're getting. Here's more of Gordin being a good brother and young Ryan just being a kid. (I tried to play around with the narrative voice to make it more fitting of Ryan's perspective, hence the – sometimes – over repetitive word choice. I'm not sure how well that turned out, but it was kind of fun to try out...!)
> 
> Another part of the [fear headcanons](https://twitter.com/lait_tea1/status/1353740399802634240) series. I know I wrote 'he burned himself pretty badly', but I kind of... forgot about that and dived straight into the fluff instead. Oops. Well, this is just... a lighter version of that, I guess, but I'm pretending that the 'actual version' leads to more severe burns which actually gives reason for his fear/paranoia of carrying anything with water in it.

Gordin poked his head out through the doorway. “Ryan?”

Ryan immediately jumped to attention, tossing aside the wooden horse he had been stuck with playing with after being kept from going inside Mother’s room for so long. “I can help?”

Gordin chuckled and nodded, though his face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes – Ryan felt sad seeing him look so tired. But he was excited that he could finally get to help…!

“Yeah, I need your help with something. I need some hot water to help with Mother’s fever… you know where I left the kettle in the kitchen?”

Ryan nodded eagerly.

“Could you go get that for me, and leave it outside here? I can’t get it myself because Mother is feeling very sick and I need to be at her side…”

“Of course!” He chirped, already at the staircase, “I won’t be long!”

“Hey, be careful – don’t run…!”

Ryan made sure to walk down the stairs one at a time while Gordin was watching, but once he was around the side of the staircase, he quickly jumped the last two (which always made his teeth rattle a little when he did that, but it was fun) and rushed to the kitchen.

_Brother’s trusting me to get this for Mother… I’ve got to do something to help!_ Mother was always there at his bedside whenever he was sick, and her soup always made him feel better… Ryan wished he knew how to make her delicious soup, but for now…

The kettle was on the stovetop. Ryan tried reaching for it, but he couldn’t grab the handle…

“Oh!” He exclaimed aloud. There was a chair in the dining room – he could use that!

_Need to be fast, for Mother…_

He scuttled over to the dining room. He’d forgotten to tuck his own chair away after breakfast – Gordin usually reminded him, but he hadn’t come out of Mother’s room since this morning…

_I’ll put it away later, after I use it, so Brother has less to worry about later…_

Chair, table, stove. He was teetering on the edge of the chair, leaning over the kettle…

“Got it!” He pulled the kettle closer, then– _It’s heavy… really heavy…_

A little step back, then a little more shuffling…

“Oof!” He nearly fell straight off the chair, but with two hands on the handle like a pail – he hopped to the ground safely, the kettle dangling between his arms like a heavy bucket of water from the well.

He waddled down the hallway with the kettle, a bit like a duck. He put down the hot kettle on the floor because he was tired, then remembered how tired Gordin was and decided Mother’s sickness was much, much more important, so he picked up the kettle in both hands even though his hands hurt and started climbing the stairs.

It was a long climb, especially with his arms stuck out straight in front of him holding the kettle, but he made it! Seeing the door to Mother’s room at the end of the hallway gave him a little more energy, so he lifted the kettle with all his might and walked as quickly as he could–

His foot landed directly on top of something hard and wooden and painful, and suddenly his grip slipped from the handle and–

Hot water – ow, ow, hot water, it burns–!

“Ryan?!” Gordin immediately burst out of the room. Ryan could only cry because there was hot water everywhere and it hurt and there was no more hot water for Mother–

“Oh no, I didn’t – ah, I didn’t think through properly– Ryan, where are you hurt?”

Everything hurt and his hands and skin were all red and painful, and it hurt–

“Shh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how heavy the kettle was, I shouldn’t have asked you to…”

“Dears,” a cough, “Is everything alright?”

“Uh – Mother, I… Ryan dropped the kettle and burned himself and it’s all my fault–! What do I do–?!”

“Oh? Oh no, oh, my sweet children, you did this all for…”

“Mother, please, don’t get up – I’ll handle it, just stay in bed… uh, about Ryan, I just run them under cold water, right? And the salve’s in the bathroom?”

Ryan whimpered as Gordin picked his way over the spilled water and fallen toy horse and kneeled next to him.

“Come on, we’ve got to get you somewhere else to look at your burns and clean up the mess…”

“It hurts…”

“I know, but you can’t sit here forever. C’mon, here, I’ll help you stand up…”

He wailed as Gordin squeezed the hurting skin on his arms.

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean – how about you just stand up yourself? You can stand up, right?”

Ryan blinked away the tears and tried to nod. His foot hurt a lot but he pushed himself up and stood – there was water dripping everywhere from his clothes and from where he was sitting.

“Don’t slip, now, just… come over here to the bathroom and sit here, I’ll grab the salve…”

“…want Mother…”

“Shh, she’s sick and needs the rest. But I’ll try and help you with your injuries like she does, okay? Uh… do you need a kiss on the head?”

Ryan wrinkled his nose. “Eww… no, not you…”

Gordin huffed. “Wow, thanks for that.” But he didn’t seem that mad – he laughed as he filled one of the buckets with cold water, and smiled at him as he began patting down his reddened arms and legs with a wet towel. “Heh, made you forget about it, though? Or at least it hurts less?”

“Wha?”

“Haha… never mind.” Gordin tossed the wet towel back into the bucket. “You need to change out of your wet clothes before I can apply the salve, otherwise it’ll get everywhere. Here, I’ll grab you a change of clothes – take off your shirt first…”

By the time Gordin came back, Ryan had already wriggled out of the rest of his wet outer clothes. After a full change into warm, dry clothes, Ryan felt a lot better already, but Gordin made him sit down again and wait for the medicine-salve to be applied.

“Stop kicking your legs…”

“Why is it taking so long?” Ryan began swinging his arms instead.

“Ow, my face–! Just stop moving for a second and let me put this on… I can’t figure out whether this is just your skin or meant to be a burn… actually, you tell me – does this hurt if I poke it?”

Ryan flinched.

“Okay, yeah, I guess that’s just a burn… wow, if this whole thing is a burn, then… ouch.”

Ryan quietly sat and waited as Gordin put on the rest of the medicine on his legs. It smelled funny, but it was cold and did feel nice…

“…thank you.” He mumbled, suddenly feeling a lot more glum than before. “I’m… I’m sorry I couldn’t – that I couldn’t even help you…”

“It’s my fault for making you do something like that – I completely forgot how heavy the kettle is when full…” Gordin stood up and screwed the lid back on the jar with a long sigh.

Ryan stared down at his feet. “…I’m sorry for making you feel sad… and tired… and making you do this when you’re busy…”

“No, no, it – sorry, I just got caught up for a second, everything’s just been so overwhelming lately… I’m just tired, I guess, it’s not your fault.”

As if in apology, Gordin gently poked his nose. Ryan couldn’t help but giggle at that, and was happy to see Gordin smile as well.

“Well… I mean, if you’re feeling better now… I guess you could help me by accompanying Mother. I think she’d like that, as long as you don’t stand too close in case she accidentally coughs on you…”

Ryan perked up. “Really?”

“She’s feeling a little better now, so I think she’d appreciate you being there.” Gordin paused. “Wait, actually – there’s still the stuff to clean up in the hallway… in fact, I’ll just make sure you get to her room without slipping first, then clean that up…”

“Um… the – the water on the floor… I – I spilled it, I should…”

Gordin sighed, but he was still smiling. “It’s alright. I think we’ve both gone through a lot today, but you more so – I know you’ve been missing being able to see Mother, and she’s been missing seeing you, so that should come first…”

Ryan jumped to his feet. “Then let’s go–! I… I also wanna make her soup, but…”

Gordin shrugged. “Sorry, Ryan, I don’t know how. But maybe we can ask Father when he gets home later?”

“Later,” Ryan agreed.

“Let’s get you on your visit to Mother first.” Gordin’s eyes seemed to light up at that. “Oh! I have an idea to get you over the water spill. Say, Ryan, you want to ride on my back…?”

After a bumpy ride over through the hallway (Ryan decided that Father was better at piggyback rides, but… Gordin was second, he guessed), he was dropped off at the door.

Ryan grabbed Gordin’s hand before he could leave. “Where are you going?”

“Well, I still need to clean up…”

Ryan tugged at his hand again. “Mother… she’d want to see both of us…”

Gordin let out a little sigh of defeat, but to Ryan’s excitement, he surrendered with a fond smile.

“Alright, well… that spill isn’t going anywhere, so we can just clean that up later, really…”

Ryan beamed. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Haha, alright… well, after you, then…!”


	23. "Don't look" (Roderick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderick hops a fence to grab a dropped ball for his sisters. A lot more happens than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final piece to [this collection](https://twitter.com/lait_tea1/status/1353740399802634240) of headcanons.
> 
> I've also decided that my current headcanon names for Roderick's sisters are Edith and Amelia. Not much meaning behind why, only because they feel right and they have similar origins (I think? From the same place, around...) Anyway, as you know, whenever siblings are involved, I always end up writing much more about them than I expect, except there's more actual whump this time than the last chapter...

He immediately looks up as Amelia runs up to him, arms flailing as she practically trips over her shoes in her hurry. “Brother! Brother, help– we…!”

Edith rushes after Amelia. “Stop bothering him, you know he’s busy!”

“It’s alright – I wasn’t doing anything important anyway.” Roderick says, putting down the laundry pole as Amelia finally stumbles to a stop by his feet. “What is it?”

“The… the ball, it…” She looks like she’s about to cry. He hushes her, patting her head in the way that has calmed her down ever since she was an infant. “What about it?”

“We were playing, and it bounced off the tree and over the fence…” Edith is the one who speaks up this time, her arms crossed. She isn’t as expressive as Amelia is, but he can tell she’s concerned; and he knows well why. The leather ball is a luxury that their father had been able to afford only a couple of months ago, so losing it…

“Where is it?”

Amelia grabs his arm and drags him over. Roderick lets her pull him over to where the fence separates their house from the house next door; indeed, the ball is across the iron fence, just out of reach. The gaps between the fence are too small for any of them to cross either – Roderick knew enough from his father that their neighbour had never been overly fond of children.

He cranes his neck to look over the fence. Said neighbour is nowhere to be seen, so even if they wanted to ask…

“Wait, I have an idea.”

He returns with the laundry pole in hand. It fits through the gaps of the fence easily, with space to spare, so he wriggles it through with both hands on one end and stretches his arms as far as possible through the gaps to try and poke the ball closer.

The lengthy pole may work well as a makeshift lance, but not so much as an extension of an arm. The ball rolls even further out of reach, settling almost mockingly so in where the grass dips down into a small hollow.

“Oh…” Edith says, disappointedly. She sighs and pats Amelia’s arm in some act of reassurance, but the younger girl looks like she’s about to burst into tears anyway.

_…Father’s been extremely busy lately, and I don’t want to bother him now… and he’s never liked our neighbour anyway, and if he has to go talk to him just to get back our ball, then…_

Roderick scans down the length of the fence. There’s not a door anywhere in sight, and the only entrance that he knows of is the main gate to the neighbour’s house, and there’s no way he’s going there to ask for the ball back. (The last time they had tried talk to him, he’d shouted at Amelia and made her cry, so Father particularly disliked that man.)

The iron pickets aren’t far apart enough to get through, and the fence itself reaches just about to the top of his head. And even if he can reach over, the pointy spikes at the top of each spire look dangerous…

It doesn’t look like they’re getting the ball back after all.

He kneels by Amelia and brushes away the stray hairs sticking to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Amelia… I don’t think we can get it back now, not unless the neighbour’s nice enough to throw it back…”

“Which he won’t.” Edith mutters bitterly.

Amelia’s shoulders shake. “But… but Father… he– he spent a lot on buying the toy, and – and we’ve only played with it three times…”

Seeing Amelia’s distress makes his chest hurt. Edith’s still glaring down at the floor, arms crossed, but Roderick knows her well enough to see how upset she is. She’s not usually one to wear her emotions on her sleeve like Amelia is, especially after having taken the role of ‘responsible older sister’ whenever he can’t be around, but she’s only eleven.

He glances back at the fence again. The horizontal metal rail at the bottom catches his eye this time round; it’s about ankle-height off the floor. And now that he’s looking at it more closely, each iron picket is far enough spaced apart so that he can put a foot on the rail, and maybe…

“Hm.”

There’s a handhold on the other horizontal rail, just around shoulder height. It looks fairly easy to scale, actually, if he’s careful…

It’s not an idea he would have thought of or entertained in any other situation – he’s meant to be a role model to his two younger sisters. He prefers to keep out of trouble, unlike most of the other boys in town who spend their free time making noise in the plaza and throwing acorns at window, and if he’s caught doing something like that, he’d be in a lot of trouble…

But it’d only be a quick jump back and forth. He knows he could do it – at least, he’s pretty sure, and if he had to admit it, the opportunity to do something practical – that could very well be a task he would have to do in knight training, when he got to it – is rather thrilling. But all that aside… it’s to make his sisters happy. Which makes it the right thing to do, right? Especially since it’d cause nobody any harm…

“Alright, I’m going to see if I can get it.” He suddenly lowers his voice to a hush. Amelia perks up at once, and seeing her smile almost makes it worth it even before he’s started doing it.

“Huh? How?” Edith tilts her head and frowns. “You’re… you’re not going to talk to him, are you? He’s going to shout at all of us if…”

“No, I’m just going to climb over there, grab it and climb back. It should take hardly a minute.”

Amelia blinks innocently and beams at him. Edith, on the other hand, looks confused – then shock crosses her face.

“It’s… unsafe.” She mutters. It sounds strange coming from her mouth, that she’s the one berating him for doing something reckless. Even she sounds uncertain about it.

“I know, but I’ll be careful.” He replies. “I’ve been practicing skills to prepare for knight training, so this shouldn’t be too hard.”

The other boys in town have climbed things higher than this fence before, too. He’s seen them running on rooftops, laughing and having fun and eager to return home where they can be fussed over by worried mothers and fathers–

He shakes his head. This isn’t the time to be feeling jealous. He’s already accepted that about his life – caring for his little sisters because his father can’t and his mother can no longer do so, and doing chores where he can – and no wishful thinking is going to change that.

“You’re gonna climb the fence? You _can_ climb the fence?” Amelia blinks innocently at him, all wide-eyed and blissfully unaware of his internal dilemma. Roderick nods and ruffles her hair. “I’ll be quick. But you two have to make sure you don’t tell anyone about this, okay? Especially not Father…”

Amelia’s lower lip sticks out as she contemplates the deal. “Not Father?”

“I don’t want him to worry about more than he has to.” He leaves it at that. Amelia seems to understand at once, and she nods. “Mhm… okay.”

Edith waves a hand. “Yeah, I won’t tell. Uh, but those spikes…”

“I’ll be careful.” He repeats, more as reassurance to himself than to her. Then before he can back out of his rash decision, he moves over to the fence and takes hold of a portion of the iron rail in both hands.

The metal is cool in his grasp. They only accentuate how sweaty his hands are. He swallows, brushes them down on his trousers and puts them back on the rail now.

He tests the waters. Both feet fit easily enough between the gaps in the fence, and aside from the flaky dust along the top of the fence, there’s no chance of slipping.

He acts before he can really think. He pulls himself up using his handholds and the spires to push off against. The spikes pass dangerously close to his face as he leans forward– but then he’s pulled his feet over and he’s through.

Roderick hops down on the other side, landing on his feet, but his momentum tips him over and he ends up catching himself with his hands in the dirt. He stands up – his heart is pounding, both from the jump and from being somewhere where he clearly shouldn’t.

He takes a deep breath and quickly hurries forward. The ball is still there, nestled in the dirt hollow and flattened grass.

He picks it up, turns around and tosses it back over the fence. Edith catches it, and Amelia cheers.

_Now to get back…_

His heart is still racing and his hands are shaking, but he’s not staying any longer than he has to. He grabs the fence by the pickets again, braces his feet against the rail and pulls himself up–

“Hey, what – you’re his brats, aren’t you–? What were you doing in my place?!”

The shout startles him. His balance wavers – with both feet on the top rail now and crouched with his limbs tucked close, he can’t even stick out a limb to try catch his balance and instead he just jumps as his legs buckle–

It’s like something has hit his leg and run its claws down the side of his shin as he slams face-first into the ground. Everything’s numb for a moment until he looks up and sees– sees blood everywhere.

His right leg _hurts_ so badly– he’s feeling faint but suddenly he remembers Amelia and Edith are still there–

“Don’t look,” he croaks out, but he knows he’s already too late when he hears Amelia sobbing.

Seeing the huge bloody gash in his leg – it runs down from his thigh and cut off and then sank back into his flesh at the side of his calf, like someone had tried to gouge it open with a knife to try reach his bone – all this blood everywhere is making him dizzy, and he knows he should be saying or doing something else but he can’t quite think–

“I’m getting Father!” Edith shrieks.

He can’t cry. He can’t, not in front of them – they need him to be brave, to… to do something, he doesn’t know what…

Roderick squeezes his eyes shut, as if that’ll stop that tightness in his throat and the hot wetness building behind his eyes. He tries to breathe steadily – inhale deep, ex–

It’s sharp and metallic and he gags at the smell.

The floor shakes. Somebody’s at his side all of a sudden – he hears a word he hasn’t heard his father say in a while, even there’s someone trying to move him. He cries out as grass and dirt and tiny sharp rocks dig into his leg.

“It’ll be alright, it’s alright – Edith’s getting the church’s doctor, I’ll bring you inside to clean it out first–” Father – Father’s holding him in his arms in a way he hasn’t since Mother died.

The choking tightness in his chest releases into a hoarse, rasping noise from the back of his throat. Everything that’s welled up, overwhelmingly so – he turns his face against his father’s chest and feels his body shake as he makes that noise again; it’s like he’s trying to cough but he can’t dislodge that feeling–

“It’s okay, kid, it’ll be alright – they’re coming…” An awkward, calloused hand brushes against the back of his head – some clumsy rendition of a comforting touch.

Roderick blinks and everything goes blurry, and not just from the tunnel vision and light-headedness from earlier.

“I’m…” His father sounds like he’s prepared to say something, but the words never come. He falls silent, and maybe his arms wrap around him a little tighter, and Roderick’s chest and eyes hurt from crying into his father’s chest that he nearly forgets about his leg until Edith and Amelia run back…

Maybe they know, maybe they don’t – but this time, Roderick doesn’t stop himself from huddling as close to his father as possible anyway and squeezing his hand tight for as long as he can, even after the priest who stitches his leg together is long gone and when Amelia and Edith end up throwing themselves into the embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally spent too long on giving context (again) and there's a lot less description of the injury than I would have initially anticipated. And that emotional whump (is it whump? I don't know) wasn't planned at all, but... well, oops...? Poor him, though... (I've written Roderick the most compared to the other characters here, I'm pretty sure – I mean... I definitely show favourites, but that doesn't really mean that's a good thing for said favourite characters...)


	24. Memory loss (Clarisse, Katarina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarisse stumbles upon something after a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, with how I said that I'd refer to Reese in the title as Katarina to make it easier to organise, I haven't referred to Reese as Katarina like... at all. (Actually, no, I lied, I just remembered I have written for one prompt where it's actually Katarina after she joins up with the squires – but majority of the prompts are of pre-squire training Katarina.)
> 
> Anyway, memory loss! It's not quite memory loss in the way I'd feel most people would take it, but... I couldn't think of anyone who would work well for a conk in the head and then temporary memory loss (that I would feel like writing), but Clarisse came to me out of the blue. And she's participated in so many prompts as the one Katarina turns to, so why not flip that around?
> 
> (I thought I was going to make this shorter to give myself a bit of a break after the last two long ones. I was wrong. It turns out 'self-proclaimed siblings', even if it's not explicitly mentioned here, also count for things that make me write a lot.)

The last of the Soothsires lie dead at their feet. Legion is cackling maniacally as he hacks at a corpse, Reese has wandered off ahead, and Clarisse takes aim with her bow and picks off the last of the fleeing cowards with hardly more than an arrow for each.

“Clarisse…”

She scowls and turns to face Reese, who has slunk off back from the entrance to the hideout to linger near her instead. “What?”

“The Soothsires’ hideout.” Reese inclines with her head, as if Clarisse hasn’t seen the giant doorway already. “There might be prisoners… let’s search inside.”

“What? Why should we care?”

Reese looks back at her, already halfway towards the door. “Lady Eremiya…”

Clarisse huffs. “Do we have to? What a pain.” _What does Lady Eremiya want with some prisoners anyway? Hmph… not my place to ask. There’s probably more in here that Lady Eremiya wants, aside from just a couple of prisoners._

She rolls her eyes and strides after Reese, pointedly glaring at Legion as he continues to mutilate the corpse for no good reason when she passes

They come to a stop in front of the open door. Clarisse slings her bow back over her shoulder and replaces it with a hunting dagger; the shorter, more manoeuvrable blade more suited to the narrow confines of the indoor hideout. Even if there are supposedly no bandits inside, letting her guard down is a death sentence.

Reese summons a flame in her hand, even though the darkness isn’t something they’re unaccustomed to. She lights a fallen torch, holds it out – Clarisse snorts, mutters “I can see fine” but takes it anyway. It’d be a handy weapon if necessary.

Reese lights another torch. Her tome finally crumbles to dust and ash when the flames leave her fingertips, scattering to the ground in a shower of fine powder.

“What?” Clarisse grouses, when Reese turns to look at her curiously after taking several steps further into the hideout. “Aren’t you going to get a weapon?”

“Ah… right.”

As Reese fumbles one-handed for a new tome, Clarisse waits. It’s not like she’s in a rush to get anywhere, and she might as well watch Reese’s back while she’s still weaponless.

_I don’t understand magic and tomes. For your weapon to break so suddenly in the middle of the battle…_ At least Reese had something to use for a weapon. She had been rather pathetic with the daggers she’d been equipped with anyway, so something was better than nothing… and the fact that Lady Eremiya had suddenly become much more interested in Reese after she started learning how to use magic is – better, Clarisse supposes. Lady Eremiya is happier, happy with their success, so that is what matters.

She clears her throat when Reese finally has another Fire tome in hand. “Are you done? Let’s go.”

Clarisse doesn’t turn around as she strides further into the darkness, torch in hand. It’s a shabbily maintained place, nothing like Lady Eremiya’s home for them. Wooden panels cover the floor in some places but not others, and there are doorways with chunks of wood taken out of the actual door itself.

Clarisse opens the first door and aims her torch and knife into the corners of the room. When nothing moves within the shifting firelight, she lowers the knife and moves closer to the piles of discarded trash on the floor to investigate.

Or not quite trash, at least to the people who’d care.

“Hm? What’s this? These are rather expensive-looking paintings…”

“It seems that stolen artworks are stored here; jewellery, paintings, furniture…”

One particular picture frame on the floor catches her eye. She kneels, lifting her torch above the smudges of colour… it’s hard to make out details with the ever-shifting light source, but there’s something familiar about it. The sight of it seems to beckon, tugging her closer…

It looks like a painting of a family. Well-off, at that, if the fact a painting was made in the first place said anything…

It’s of a man, a woman in an armchair and a child in her lap.

Their faces are smudged with dust, but Clarisse can still distinguish their features from beneath it. Neatly groomed hair, kind eyes. It might be the dust, but all three occupants appear to share a similar hair colour – ashen brown, or perhaps a dull blond. There is a bow hanging on the wall in the background – particular detail has been placed into the intricate carvings in the wood of the grip, which is probably what draws her eyes to it after.

For some reason, looking down at this painting makes her heart ache in a way that it hasn’t since… since when? She’s not sure.

“Clarisse?” Reese is peering over her shoulder.

Clarisse bristles and turns her body as if it’ll keep Reese from looking too closely at the painting. But she can’t quite find the anger to lash out, and after a long moment of deliberation, she mutters “you go on ahead”–

“…Alright.” Reese doesn’t question her further and turns to leave. Clarisse is almost grateful for that.

She turns back to the painting. Looking at it like this, something flutters at the edge of her memory, tauntingly out of reach.

She looks closer. The little girl sitting on her mother’s knee – they’re a family, she’s almost certain – the little girl, she’s… smiling. It looks strange, unnatural or twisted in a way, but Clarisse doesn’t know why.

_Why would it be strange?_ It doesn’t look like a particularly odd painting. In fact, it almost looks natural – why wouldn’t the child be happy? In the arms of their loving parents, in a big, warm room and soft carpet…

Clarisse pauses. _…what warm room?_ It’s a painting. There’s no warmth in a painting – just colours put together in a way to look like something. So why is she so sure…?

Clarisse studies their faces closer again, using a thumb to brush away the dust… their smiles, their gentle, kind smiles.

_And they… I knew them…?_ No, not them – the… the two. The parents. She knew them, she – she could remember their smiles, their…

_Then the girl–?_ There’s something so unfamiliar about the girl, yet at the same time, Clarisse – she didn’t know, but at the same time, it just had to be–

Her hands tighten around the wooden picture frame. Even the picture frame looks – familiar, now that she thinks about it. It looks like it should be hanging on the wall, right next to the bow, but… but that’s not possible.

_It’s… not…_ She knows. She can’t remember, but she knows, she – there’s only one reason why she’d be thinking of all this, despite only ever remembering… remembering Lady Eremiya…

“Ah–!” Lady Eremiya – she… she wouldn’t be happy. Wasting time, staring at a picture?

Clarisse stands up abruptly, pushing the painting back underneath a pile of something else. She turns on her heel, tightens her grip on her torch, walks out the room–

It hurts. She turns back around again, hands shaking unnaturally so.

There’s an urge to take the painting. Nobody would miss it – anyone who would was dead, she knew that, too surely – but it wasn’t like she could take it anywhere. It would be shattered and torn to pieces if Lady Eremiya ever caught a glimpse of it in her… home…

Home feels like an unnatural word.

Clarisse shakes her head, turns back around. Walks out the door–

“Clarisse, we’ve located the captives.” She nearly walks right into Reese then. Reese stumbles back, mumbling apologies…

Clarisse remains silent. Her mind is still racing, her heart is pounding too much to pay attention to anything Reese is saying.

It doesn’t even occur to her that Reese has fallen silent until she hears her name again.

“Clarisse? What’s wrong? You’ve been acting odd.”

She swallows hard. It’d be – easy, easy enough to brush aside and pretend she had seen nothing, but… it wasn’t as if Reese didn’t know. She had seen the painting too, and Reese – Reese… She’d understand the most, out of everyone, and – and Clarisse fears that she’ll… forget about it if she walks out now. Forget about the painting, about the fleeting glimpses of – memory…

“…I’ve seen that painting. A long time ago.”

Reese blinks. “Huh?”

“A big, warm room… soft carpet… a family portrait… The two of them smiled… and gently… patted my head…”

Words are spilling from her mouth before she can think, but Reese – she doesn’t shout, or get angry, because she never does… she only looks sad.

“Clarisse…”

“But... but... Of course, they're... They're all…”

She’s too certain of it, too sure… even though – _Why can’t I remember? Why can’t – why can’t I remember anything else…?_

Reese is completely silent.

Clarisse’s throat feels tight, like someone is squeezing it from the inside, trying to choke and strangle all the words coming out of her mouth that shouldn’t be.

“It's only natural for the weak... to suffer... but…”


	25. Horse accident (Cecil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil and her horse May, and another battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original prompt was car accident, but... you know, it's Fire Emblem, so I went for the nearest equivalent, then flipped that around too. It really was going to be a battlefield scene with Cecil and her horse, but it went into... horse whump instead? I don't know. It's twelve (I posted this literally a minute before the 26th) and this hasn't been edited at all, much like the other ones.
> 
> It also turns out that I imagine/write action in present tense now, but everything in past. I didn't even realise I'd changed from past to present tense in the middle of this piece (never mind how I randomly changed to present tense two chapters ago for no reason) until I went back, and I had to edit the first part to make it all present tense. Anyway, enough of me talking...

Cecil never enjoys bringing May into battle, even if she is an extremely well trained horse with plenty of experience in battle… which is partly the reason why she detested it so much. After spending so much time with May, from when she was a young foal that her parents had gifted her, to squire training and then real war – if there’s someone Cecil had trust with her life, aside from her platoon, then it would be May.

It doesn’t stop her from muttering an apology each time to May each time the call to arms sounded and they rode into battle. And even now, as they gallop through a raging battlefield with Cecil pressed close to her back, she keeps her own hands tight on the reins with steady, assured control in her own way of promising her horse that they would get out of this alive… even if she isn’t always certain of it herself.

An enemy – the battlefield was full of many, but Cecil had grown experienced in figuring out which enemies had spotted her in battle. Apparently seeing her as an easy target, their horse breaks from trot into gallop, and they level their lance at their side as they approach.

Her sword, her favoured weapon, would be at a disadvantage with its length… but Cecil is also experienced in twisting this situation to her advantage, or at least to keep herself from being killed outright. She crouches low, knees pressing hard against the edge of the saddle and May’s heaving ribs. Feet in the stirrup, sword in hand, she switches her grip of the reins to her left hand and urges May to charge.

She avoids the spearpoint on her first pass around, but her sword doesn’t catch them as she’d hoped. They circle around again, only slowing to make the turn before they start galloping forward again.

The enemy is slower to turn, but they block her blade with their lance shaft and her sword skids down the wood and off, and they’ve barrelled past again.

Their horse is bulky, strong but slow. May turns quickly – she’s always been agile despite her frailer frame, but it’s an advantage in situations like this. They don’t have enough space to make a full charge, but Cecil urges May after the other horse anyway.

They catch up before the enemy soldier can turn, so they’re side by side. Cecil lashes out and her blade digs into the soldier’s armour before they can twist around their hefty lance to retaliate. May pulls her away before their opponent can get full control, even without Cecil having to order her to.

Cecil’s hand tighten on the reins again.

_We won’t win a battle of endurance, so it has to end now._

Without even a word, hardly a squeeze of her flanks – May breaks out into a full gallop. Cecil wraps the reins around her hand so she’s practically pressing her left hand into May’s mane, wraps her hand around the hilt of her sword–

They meet the enemy head on. The lance flashes – Cecil pulls hard on the reins and May rears, front hooves kicking at the soldier’s face as Cecil holds on tight with one hand and thrusts her sword forward with the other–

She doesn’t expect the lance point to hit her square in the breastplate as they come back down. The momentum of May’s hooves slamming back down into the earth against the momentum of the strike throws her back. She’s flung back, off May’s back, her hand still tangled in the reins – she yells in pain as her wrist wrenches back painfully and she tumbles back.

The reins keep her from fully hitting the floor – they’re only short enough to jerk her arm back with her knees half-above the ground – but it’s more of a curse than a blessing.

May panics, or– no, it’s the lance slicing through her flank, and Cecil bites back her cry as May pulls away sharply and yanks her hand with her tangled reins.

She can’t get up, her hand is still twisted into the leather straps which are acting more like shackles than support and _ow, ow_ it hurts, her arm’s twisting back farther than she can handle–

May isn’t running. May hasn’t broken out running, pulling her alongside – even though the enemy’s right there, readying their lance to make the next strike, and Cecil realises she’s waiting for _her_ , putting her own full meter-and-a-half length in between the enemy to protect her while she’s struggling on the floor.

Cecil doesn’t hesitate, or at least she moves as quickly as she can. Twists around her torso (even though her arm bends back even more, or at least it would if it could – there might have been a pop of something in the socket), slashes through the reins without a second thought. They’re both free, May of the weight at her side and Cecil of her shackled arm.

“Run–!” Her first verbal command, but – but May doesn’t move, a towering silhouette between her and the enemy cavalier, and the next thing she knows May screams as the lance pierces her flank again and slides through solid muscle and flesh with a wet tearing sound.

Even though her own left arm is dangling limp by her side and she’s still sprawled on the ground, seeing the blood that comes out with the wresting of the lance from May’s side makes her vision go red. She lurches to her feet, darts around May’s front with sword in hand–

The cavalier hadn’t noticed her get up, or they would’ve blocked the fatal blow that went through the side of their unprotected neck and probably up through their head. Their horse whinnies and bolts even before its rider falls dead from its back, but that is the least of Cecil’s concerns right now.

May’s still standing, her breaths coming in airy, rasping whistles, but the gaping wound in her side is bleeding profusely and staining her chestnut coat rust-red.

“No, no – May… you’ll be alright.” Cecil’s own voice comes weak and airy – the fatigue and pain hits in her left side but she stumbles over anyway, shoving her bloodied blade in its sheath and putting her hand to May’s snout in some useless act of reassurance as she fumbles for a vulnerary.

Vulneraries are never fully effective, not as much as white magic, but they keep a person standing long enough to live through a battle and that’s what matters. Horses can’t ingest vulneraries, at least not without effort from her side, so Cecil dumps the contents of the bottle over the wound.

Thankfully, fortunately, it seems to work. May’s eyes brighten a little, the pain-addled haze over disappears. The cut hasn’t closed, but it’s stopped bleeding for now – and the vulnerary has probably numbed it too.

Her own arm aches, but Cecil clambers back on May’s back anyway. She can do without the reins – she’ll just hold on tight with her legs.

The battle’s still ongoing. Cecil urges May back on into the fray, her good arm settling at the base of her mane and holding on as best as she can.

Cecil swears that she’ll get May to a healer as soon as possible after this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May, by the way, is my name for Cecil's horse. Why? ...I'd like to think that Roderick's horse is named something along the lines of Boey, and Luke's would be called something like Genny/Jenny... you know? (But I haven't thought of much past that, and I don't want to give exact names – since it'd be awkward, especially since Mae, Boey and Genny exist at the same time as they do, just on the other continent... even if they may never end up meeting each other. I'm rambling again... time to go to bed I guess)
> 
> Vulneraries also can apparently conveniently change depending on what I need them for. I have them ingested, used as disinfectant, and then just... painkiller?? I don't know anymore. (I rarely do use vulneraries in my writing, though, just because it's not fun if you can be instantly cure all injuries just by drinking it...)


	26. Recovery (Horace, Norne, Ymir)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple of friends poke fun at each other in the medic's tent (actually, Norne and Ymir poke fun at Horace, and then Horace tries to scold Ymir and then they poke more fun at him)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing without knowing who I was even going to write about (you can tell where the start is all serious and then it just abruptly... stops as soon as Norne shows up) then it turned into a thousand-something words of them just arguing. If there's one other thing that I love writing, aside from sibling fluff, it's of a group of friends (or more, at times). I just like them a lot...
> 
> It's not whump again (whoops), but I should probably stop pointing that out because it's more like 30% of this entire challenge is some form of whump and the other 70% is just fluff. I hope you guys don't mind (or whoever out there who ends up clicking on this whump challenge expecting more...)!

Victories tend to ring hollow in the face of death, and that only seems to be amplified with Naga’s wrath. The sky is dark as a foggy evening, despite sunrise being only several hours ago, and the air is heavy and thick with a dismal air.

Most soldiers are scattered about their makeshift camp, sprawled in the mud and huddling next to the clerics’ tents, while tending to their injuries. The camp itself is in shambles after the mayhem of battle – even with the camp itself being untouched by the actual fighting, the constant passing of the injured in and out leaves the tents stained brown with old blood that nobody has bothered to wash out after the second time, especially since the thunderstorm has soaked everything in a cold sheet of rain anyway.

The only tents standing are the clerics’ workplace – for the severely injured, those who are hauled in on stretchers or by their own feet before collapsing from whatever injuries they had sustained (their soldiers are hardy like that, but they have to be in times of war). Even with the shelter they would provide, most people stay clear of them – the clerics need their space to work, especially in the busy moments directly after the battle, and nobody wants to step into a damp, humid, blood-laden room given the choice.

Even so, there’s someone Horace needs to see. Hopefully most of the injured are tended to, and he won’t be impeding on anyone’s way.

Horace trudges through the clearing towards one of the dark green tents. His boots squelch as he treads through a particularly soft, boggy patch of mud, and he tugs his foot out of the already-closing hole with a grimace before continuing on his way.

Norne catches him before he can reach his destination. “Horace! Have you seen–”

“Ymir’s in one of those.” Horace knows well enough, after being the one to haul the man into one; Ymir had tried brushing off all of the blood dripping down his torso (despite the rain constantly washing it away, there was just more and more blood) and the arrows sticking out of his arm. “He’s not fatally injured, but I still wished to check on him anyway.”

Norne throws an arm over his shoulder – or tries, by jumping up in some attempt of reaching it. Her boots hit the mud again and splatters wet dirt – more slush than solid – all over the both of them.

Horace sighs and just keeps walking.

“Well, I’m sure glad he’s alright, though of course a couple of arrows like that wouldn’t ‘ve, uh, you know, put him out. You know how strong he is!”

He grunts in response.

Norne keeps talking as she trots along behind him, sounding almost hysterical in her excitement… or whatever enthusiasm she’s summoned. It’s drawing a couple of gazes, probably because she’s the only one who looks remotely gleeful in this miserable weather.

She hurries on ahead of him and shouts through the tent flaps. “Hello? Can we come in?”

A long, drawn-out sigh, probably unnecessarily so. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“Nope, just need to check on one of our friends!”

Another voice responds. “Come on in, then.”

Norne beams and tugs Horace in with her.

The fabric floor of the tent feels no better to stepping directly in mud. The floor and mud underneath squishes uncomfortably beneath their feet, underneath the already mud-trodden floor. There have been wooden planks laid out as well, likely for a steadier ground, but they’re currently being occupied by two people; Yumina and Wrys.

“Thankfully, there is nobody in critical condition here, so you are welcome to visit whoever it is.” Wrys says with a pleasant smile.

Yumina huffs. “The beds are set up back there. People are resting, so be quiet.”

“Got it.” Norne replies in a hushed voice. “Come on, let’s go find him!”

It’s not hard to do so. Ymir’s hulking figure, hunched over one of the beds, is an easy enough tell. Norne drags Horace across the wooden-boarded ‘path’, past what appears to be man sleeping with a mask on and a head of red hair peeking out from beneath sodden sheets, and they stumble to a stop in front of Ymir’s bed.

“Good to see you two. I’m glad I get some visitors – even though I do appreciate Yumina’s company, it’s still very quiet here.”

“How are you?” Norne bursts out, only to instantly lower her voice and mumble a “sorry” as one of the patients pointedly pulls their sheets over their head.

“I’m perfectly fine. I was going to go outside, but Yumina insisted I stay here for a little longer.” Ymir gestures down at his chest. Horace’s eyes travel down – the scrappy, bloodied shirt has been discarded, instead replaced by several layers of bandages around the bare skin.

“You know how staves are scarce, so they healed the worst of it and left the rest to heal over time. Honestly, I feel fine now, but you know how it is.”

Horace nods wordlessly in response. His brain doesn’t seem particularly capable of coming up with words right now.

Thankfully, Norne has plenty to say for the both of them. “Hey, better to be safe than sorry, right? Besides, we’re here to visit you, so what could be better?”

Ymir grins widely and pats her head. “Certainly. It’s a little more bearable being trapped here with the both of you here to visit me, yes?”

“Aw, look at you,” Horace is caught off guard by Norne elbowing him in the side, “He’s happy to see the both of us! You could look a little more pleased, you know.”

Horace doesn’t know how to respond. Under Ymir’s keen gaze and Norne’s eager, ah, encouragement, he tries to smile.

Norne seems to find his response unbearably hilarious and starts laughing out loud.

The masked man in the bed across the room, who turns out not to be asleep, abruptly slides off the side of the bed and strides out of the medic’s tent.

Fragments of Yumina’s half-frantic and half-angry shouting come floating back through the open tent flaps.

“…anyway,” Norne says, still grinning with way too much mischief in her eyes, “We’ll just commend your attempts and pretend that never happened, shall we? Let’s just move on…”

“What’s wrong?” Horace protests.

Norne laughs. Ymir’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “She’s only teasing you. But what she says is true… you don’t have to look so serious.”

“This is my normal face.”

Norne leans over to Ymir and lowers her voice to a mock-whisper. “Heh, normal face, he says…”

Horace can’t muster his usual irritation at the jabs. Or maybe he’s just too accustomed to Norne constantly poking fun at him…

“Anyway.” He says, pointedly ignoring Norne, “We were here to check if you were alright.”

“And you confirmed that, no?”

“But really…” Now he’s able to feel some spark of exasperation, and he folds his arms as he speaks, “…it wouldn’t have come to this if you hadn’t insisted on trying to defend me with… with your own body. I’m the one wearing armour here, so why did you put yourself in front of me?”

Ymir shakes his head. Then much to Horace’s confusion – or frustration, or whatever that emotion is – Ymir starts to laugh.

Horace doesn’t know whether to feel offended or – or something else – when Ymir pats his head. (And he’s still sitting down on the bed, at that…)

“You should get in the habit of wearing a helmet. Leaving your head unprotected like that is dangerous.”

Horace blinks.

“…that isn’t the point here–! Never mind a helmet – you’re hardly wearing any armour compared to me, so shouldn’t it be the other way around…?”

This time, it’s Ymir who lowers his voice to whisper to Norne. “…a helmet, he says…”

Horace really cannot tell what they are finding so amusing about his responses. He’s tempted to turn on his heel and leave, but that’s never worked in the past, and it definitely won’t work now…

He settles for sighing and shaking his head. “I don’t think I will ever understand you two.”

Norne grins. “Will you ever, now?”

Horace turns his attention back to Ymir. “And you. You… you are going to be more careful next time, right? Especially after seeing what happened this time?”

Ymir shrugs.

Horace stares at him.

Ymir surrenders surprisingly quickly. “Alright, if you insist. I don’t try to get myself into situations like these, but if the time comes…”

Horace huffs. “Don’t try, you say… just let me block the arrows next time. Or get yourself a proper suit of armour, if you wish to pull off stunts like that…”

“Alright, I’ll do my best, then,” Ymir replies, still smiling despite Horace’s scolding, “But as I said, if the time really comes…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Horace wonders, for a moment, what he was going to say–

“Anyway! Did you want some food? I have rations!” Norne exclaims.

“Food? That would be very welcome – I’m starving…”

Despite all their faults – or, well, their joint love of always finding some way to frustrate him, whether it’s Norne’s amusement in teasing him or Ymir’s stubbornness when it comes to being rash in battle – Horace decides that their company is… reassuring, or even enjoyable, especially when it comes to moments like these…

Even if it means taking a paper-wrapped chunk of dried meat to the face, at certain times.

“Why did you throw it at my–?”

“Hey, you were the one gesturing for me to toss it to you!”

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort!”

Ymir laughs at their bickering. Horace falls silent, shooting Norne one final disappointed look – she sticks out her tongue in response – before he focuses on trying to open his wrapped rations and not on trying to catch glimpses of them from the corner of his eye to figure out what they were whispering about again…


	27. “I wish I had never given you a chance” (Merric, Marth)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merric fights Gharnef with the Starlight tome.

Imhullu’s bite cuts into Merric’s flesh and bone as sharp as any blade, if said blade was dipped in ice and laden with the foul, smoky venom of dark magic.

He stumbles, hissing sharply through his teeth, and summons his own magic in turn. The power of Starlight courses through his blood and the strands of magic crackling in the air around him are pulled together into a dazzling circle of azure light.

Gharnef howls as Starlight wraps around him. The bright explosion of light that radiates out from the centre forces Merric to shield his eyes with a hand, and he takes a step back…

Dark tendrils materialise in the air around him, their silhouettes stark against the blinding light imprinted across the backs of his eyelids. He doesn’t even have time to raise Starlight before there’s a ‘crack’ as if something has snapped through the thrumming haze of magic in the air–

It feels like he’s been impaled with a dozen icicles.

He cries out in pain, nearly dropping the sacred tome as he tries to stumble back and ward off the purple spikes with a weak sputter of Starlight from his fingertips. He lurches to one side, the pain particularly sharp in the other, and coughs – his lungs feel like they are full of smoke and the iron tang of blood that sticks to his lips would worry him, if not for the dire situation he’s in.

Everything aches but he musters the strength to pull Starlight’s magic from the battered tome again. The air hisses and spits like water on hot oil, but he pulls from the air whatever strands of Starlight’s magic that hasn’t been drowned out by Imhullu’s overwhelming darkness and throws everything he has left at the churning mass of darkness and light around Gharnef.

Gharnef screams. It smells like burning flesh and smoke, but ‘fire’ smoke rather than ‘dark magic’ smoke. It’s still as sickening and Merric has to fight back the urge to throw up (this is why he’s always stuck with wind magic).

But the light and smoke clears with no other sign of Imhullu spilling out from between. Somebody stumbles out and Merric nearly does physically expel his disgust at the sight – Gharnef is little more than a charred skeleton at this point, already half-crumbling to ash even as he stumbles forward towards him like some walking corpse.

“…you are a fool…” Gharnef rasps, and black dust falls from the moving mass that is left of his mouth. He’s quite literally falling to pieces, and not just from being severely burned by divine magic…

“Your power is not enough to defeat Medeus… I shall be waiting in the pits of the inferno… for when he sends you to join me…”

Gharnef begins to laugh maniacally – at least, until whatever remains of his jaw falls away too.

There isn’t even any blood – he simply crumbles away into black powder, leaving behind a faintly glowing tome that has somehow been left unscathed throughout the whole ordeal…

 _The pits of the inferno indeed…_ Merric has to hold back a shudder at the sight of Gharnef’s… remains, and the nefarious tome lying on top of them. _…if anyone would end up there, it would be him…_

He can hardly feel any sense of victory at the sight of the dead man. Not even at the fact he’d succeeded, after Marth had entrusted the task to him, and that…

His muscles promptly give way. Merric hits the floor, Starlight slipping from his grip. Only adrenaline had kept him standing for this long and now that it isn’t, exhaustion promptly hits him in the face like a hammer. And with it, everything he’s sustained from Imhullu – and of its copies – hits him too in an agonising wave.

Merric doesn’t know how long he lies there. He’s tired, so tired – he can’t even try to get up. His aching muscles and fatigue prevent him from even lifting his head.

Using Excalibur – a powerful tome – already tires him out enough to have him sleeping like a log for several nights, but for an even stronger tome like Starlight – a tome crafted from the Lightsphere and Starsphere itself?

 _…they weren’t wrong when they said that powerful tomes drain energy from the user as well._ He thinks in his haze of exhaustion. Khadein’s instructors probably didn’t expect him to become the one to use the sacred tome Starlight, though, but…

With one ear pressed against the ground, he hears the oncoming footsteps before he sees them.

“Merric–? Merric!” A panicked cry, and somebody stumbles to his side in a flurry of dust and rapid footsteps. He’s too tired to even respond, at least, until March falls to his knees by his side and he hears Marth’s voice crack–

“…Merric? Merric, no, you can’t – I’m so sorry I forced you to fight alone against him, I knew I should’ve come with you… I could’ve – I could’ve protected you, but now – it’s… I wish I had never given you a chance to–”

_…wait a moment._

“I’m… not dead…” Merric croaks,

“Merric?! You – you’re–?!”

He coughs. Blood speckles the ground in front of him, or at least whatever he can see of the ground with one side of his face pressed against it, and he realises why Marth sounds so worried.

“I’m… fine… just – aftereffects…”

He doesn’t have the time nor energy to explain the mechanisms of magic to Marth, but it doesn’t seem to matter anyway. Marth helps him sit up, or at least tries, but Merric only has the energy to lie there limply and let Marth try to pull him up into a sitting position.

Marth’s smiling, relief glazing his eyes in a misty haze. “I – this means… you beat him, didn’t you? Gharnef, he’s…”

Merric tries to nod weakly. The muscles in his neck ache in protest (he didn’t even realise there was a way for the muscles in his neck to do that).

“Lena’s coming soon, don’t worry – they’re all making their way up the steps, everyone’s fine, we were lucky to have no losses… but, Merric, I… I’m just very glad you’re alright… it pained me to let you come up here yourself, but…”

 _It wasn’t as if anyone else could help me anyway._ He thinks in response, finishing off Marth’s sentence himself. There was only one Starlight tome, and so there would be only one person who could properly harm and stop Gharnef for good, after all.

Marth lets out a shaky sigh of his own. “You scared me there earlier, lying on the floor like that. I thought… I had already been regretting asking you to do something like this, but – I… I don’t know if I would be able to forgive myself if you’d…”

_But everything turned out fine, in the end… I’m alive, and you’re alive, and…_

His eyelids are heavy. And especially now that he knows everyone is alright, that Marth and the others are safe…

“I’m going to take a nap…” He mumbles, and he doesn’t hear whatever Marth says next before his exhaustion gets the better of him and he slips off into blissful unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a common theme in my writing is 'switching moods throughout' and 'not having a sense of purpose when writing', because that's what just happened again. Anyway, writing about Imhullu and Starlight makes me wonder about how magic works in Fire Emblem. I don't think I've ever touched on the topic, only just to bend the rules whenever it's convenient for me when writing.
> 
> Anyway, here's Merric. I've always wanted to write him and something along the lines of exhaustion from magic, so he finally gets to be part of this whump challenge. The part about Gharnef literally falling to bits feels a lot more serious than everything afterwards implies (such as Marth instantly mistaking Merric for being dead for some reason) – honestly, I feel like I could've written more about Gharnef and the horrific effects of dark magic, but the prompt isn't about that so I had to move on before I ended up rambling. I really did want to write about it, though... something about Imhullu turning on its user/literally consuming them after they become weak? That probably goes more into me 'conveniently bending the rules of magic to write stuff', but... writing about something like that could be interesting...


	28. "You have to let me go" (Kris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kris reminiscences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat a sequel to prompt 20, [Betrayal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132628/chapters/72714273).

Kris can almost hear her voice on the wind today.

It’s a beautiful day. He can almost imagine he’s back in Altea again as a young squire, hitching a ride on the back of Luke’s horse as their platoon travels on horseback on a patrol of Altea with Sir Cain and a couple of other platoons. If he turned to his right, Roderick would be following along, with Ryan (he was much shorter, back then) clutching at the back of his coat like his life depended on it, and up ahead, Cecil would be paired up with Katarina…

Kris blinks and shakes his head. That seems to catch Luke’s attention, and the knight addresses him without turning around. “Kris?”

“…nothing.”

Luke doesn’t press it further. Kris turns away and stares out at the blue sky above.

 _…we had similar weather on the day of our knighting ceremony, didn’t we?_ Sunny, with the faintest smattering of clouds, and a gentle breeze. It would’ve been perfect weather for training, but they couldn’t afford to get all ruffled and dishevelled on the day.

It wasn’t like they had much of a choice in the end, anyway. Kris could remember walking out of the throne room with the taste of soot in his mouth, blood and dust smeared across his clothes and a heavy, sinking anchor in his chest.

_Katarina…_

It still feels too abstract, too hazy… Almost like a dream, strands of smoke in the air that he cannot hope to grasp.

The weight in his hands. Smoke in his eyes, fire licking iron and searing into skin pain that he wouldn’t feel until hours later. His sword, slipping through ribs and flesh too effortlessly.

_Why?_

He doesn’t know what else to think, long after the time when he questioned everything else he could have done and everything else that could have happened. There’s nothing else that can quite express that emptiness in his chest, and he clings to the word as if it will one day bestow the answers he needs. Not even before, in the moments directly after she had revealed herself to be an assassin, had he ever felt this hollowness, this heavy weight of nothing, carved into him like it was now…

 _I can’t let you go._ He tells the void, to the empty space that has taken her voice, as if acknowledging it will somehow heal over the chasm in his chest from the phantom sword buried inside it.

It doesn’t feel any better than insisting the contrary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write something grand for my last prompt, but... ironically I ended up writing what I'm pretty sure is the shortest piece out of all of them. I've never been that great at angst and emotions (and I did try to turn this prompt into something more physical injury/whump related, but I ended up going back to my first interpretation of the prompt), and character death is not something I'm used to writing, but... hey, it's over now, so I technically don't have to write any more angst if I don't want to! (Yeah, I know I had total control over what I write based on the prompts anyway, but some of my first interpretations of the prompts were just... you know, angst)
> 
> Anyway, I'm surprised I made it to the end... I don't think I've ever completed a full challenge before, and on time at that. I don't know if this is the right place to do it, but... I really wanted to thank 4wholecats for commenting on every single chapter... their kind words and reactions to each chapter motivated me to write something every day, and I honestly wouldn't have finished this without them. So... thank you so much – I really appreciate it more than I can properly describe... it makes me really happy that you would spend all this time to read and comment on something I wrote each day. And to any quiet lurkers out there, I really appreciate you all, too. Seeing all the people that have clicked on this – thank you for being interested in something I've written. (And I apologise for all the rambling i've done in literally all of the chapter notes for every chapter, I just like to... talk to myself a lot, haha)
> 
> I'm feeling unnecessarily melancholic and emotional about this. Ahem, anyway... I get to be proud that I finished a challenge properly for the first time! And now I can spend my time writing other stuff, too, so look out for that, whenever that happens? Thank you all for reading, once again!


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